


*MY* Reddington?

by LiteraryBitca



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 100,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryBitca/pseuds/LiteraryBitca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very slight AU, where FBI profiler Elizabeth Keen has been watching notorious criminal Raymond Reddington for years, and hiding a connection even he is unaware of. Going episode by episode, from the beginning. (No overt romance, follows the canon as far as level of touching, but written through my Lizzington Shipper eyes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot Part 1

*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This is one hell of a plot bunny that came up in a gutterbug chat today. What would happen if Liz had been the one who watched Reddington for years without his knowledge? How would the show be different? What could stay the same? Would it still be compelling if the unrequited love was all on the side of the younger female character? ...I decided to do some mental gymnastics and find out.

Fair warning: This chapter is plotty, because the Pilot episode was plotty, and this is the Pilot. Like, very, very similar. I've got lots of differences planned, but the beginning of this show was necessarily thick with exposition, so this fic has to be, too.

...:::...

Chapter 1: The Pilot Part 1

...:::...

Liz's cell phone rang jarringly on her bedside table, waking up the dog and causing him to jump uncomfortably across her body to Tom's side of the bed. Liz groaned and reached for the phone. "Hello?" she said sleepily.

"Liz, wake up, get your ass out of bed, and get dressed. You're going to want to get in here."

"Ressler? What time is it?" Liz asked, blinking her eyes against the morning sunlight streaming in through the window. "I'm not even supposed to be coming in tod—"

"Reddington turned himself in."

Liz's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed, wide awake. "Reddington? _Raymond_ Reddington? _*My*_ Reddington?"

"Yes, dammit, _'your'_ Reddington; what other Reddington do you think I'd be calling you about? Get down here, I think you could be helpful. And really, he's more like _'my'_ Reddington, considering _I'm_ the field agent assigned to hi—"

"I'll be there in twenty—" Liz interrupted, then hung up the phone, flinging it back onto the nightstand as she launched herself out of bed and dashed toward the bathroom. "Babe? I'm gonna need to take the car…!"

Elizabeth Keen had been a profiler with the FBI for several years now. She'd played minor parts in several big cases, and was generally accepted as a hard worker, if a little bit difficult to get along with personally. She'd been quickly picked up by Donald Ressler, the senior agent on Raymond Reddington's case, since her senior thesis had been written about his target. Ressler didn't mind her often bitchy professional demeanor, since his attitude left something to be desired most days, too.

Ressler had quickly discovered no one knew Raymond Reddington like Elizabeth Keen. She could dig up intel on him and often predict his movements and motivations better than any other source Ressler had access to, so it was only a matter of time before she was vetted and brought on board at the Post Office, a black site location with a small team designed to track down high value targets and potentially house them if one could be captured and brought in alive.

And Reddington had just turned himself in.

_Why?_

She hadn't seen this coming, which was an uncomfortable feeling for her. She knew things were shaky in his empire at the moment, but she didn't know it had gotten bad enough that… That _what_? Was he using the FBI as protection? Was this a trick? Was he looking to gather intel from within? Did he know about—? _No._ It had been years and nothing had come of it. If he knew… surely he would have come for her sooner. Liz gave a frustrated sigh at her inability to form a solid theory as she pulled the front door closed and locked it behind her.

Tom smiled up at her from a few steps down as she turned around. "What?" she asked suspiciously.

"We both woke up seven minutes ago, I'm pretty sure my pants are on backwards, I can barely see straight, and you are somehow dressed, composed, and more beautiful than the day I met you. What was that phone call this morning? Why are you bouncing off the walls and glowing like it's Christmas morning?"

Liz attempted a serene smile, though she was getting antsier by the second, and her heart was pounding. "You're sweet… but you know I can't talk about it, and really—I _gotta go_." She leaned in for a quick kiss, and pulled away, frowning. "What am I forgetting?"

"You got your badge?" Tom asked.

"Of course I've got my badge, I can't get in to work without my bad—"

Tom smiled knowingly. "Last adoption meeting. One o'clock."

Liz sighed, closing her eyes briefly. She didn't want to think about any of this right now. " _Right_. Right. Of course. I won't forget."

"You're going to be there? Last meeting. You promised me you weren't going to let this job come between us and having a family," Tom reminded her.

Liz gave her husband a confused look. "Wait, were you serious about that whole adopting a kid thing? Because I've got stuff going on— _ow_!" She smiled as Tom pinched her arm lightly through her coat. " _I'll be there_ ," she insisted. "Okay, I gotta go. I'll see you this afternoon!" she called over her shoulder as she ran down the steps toward their car.

…:::…

Liz smoothed her hair and straightened her jacket before the elevator doors opened to let her into the main area of the Post Office. She generally squirreled herself away at a desk in the back, always attached to her cell phone and a computer in case Ressler—from God-knows-which international locale—happened to call her, in need of direction as he chased Reddington across the globe. Today, she made her way directly into the middle of the room, where Ressler stood with the Assistant Director, Harold Cooper, and most of the rest of the Post Office site staff. Everyone stood looking at the video feed on the large screen above them.

Liz stopped halfway through the room when she saw him. The camera was directed down on him from above. He was shackled— _shackled_ —to a chair, inside what she mentally referred to as the PO BOX. He was in a vest. No tie. That wasn't like him. She assumed he'd had one on when he came in; they must have taken it from him when they searched him. She wondered what else he'd had in his possession that they'd confiscated, and where it all was right now. She hoped they were being careful with his hat; there would be hell to pay if it wasn't returned in mint condition.

Her heart sped up again as she gazed at the screen. They were in the same building. This was a live feed, and while she wasn't technically looking directly at him… she felt a squeeze in her chest. She'd followed this man's life for years… and he'd just walked in to her Post Office. She had tracked him from a desk fifty feet to her left, and now he was _here_. She was simultaneously elated and terrified.

Suddenly the room echoed with his voice. While Liz had heard it before, knowing she was hearing his words as he spoke them made her stomach twist. She loved his voice. She moved up to edge of the crowd behind Ressler and Cooper.

"It's been over an hour, honestly… I don't mean to be rude, but what kind of a show are you running here, Harold? You have an _incredibly_ valuable source of information available, and you're not even _attempting_ communication right now." Reddington shook his head.

Cooper leaned over the microphone, pushing the button to pipe his voice into Reddington's holding cell. "We sent an agent in; you refused to even acknowledge his presence."

Reddington's expression was contrite as he looked up at the camera. "Oh, dear. If I hurt Agent Ressler's feelings earlier by refusing to speak with him…" Reddington trailed off, took a deep breath, and gave a sharp laugh. "Well, frankly, if that's the case, then I'm ecstatic, because not only did the man try to kill me several years ago in Brussels, but he _failed_. Now, I'm a man who holds a grudge, but I don't take kindly to incompetence, either. Find me someone else to deal with. And choose carefully."

Cooper leaned back, sighing in frustration. "He says he'll only speak to one person. Who should that be?" he asked, vaguely in Ressler's direction, but loud enough that the crowd of staff all heard him clearly.

"Elizabeth Keen."

Cooper turned around, looking behind him for the female voice that had interrupted the silence. "Who the hell is Elizabeth Keen?"

Liz stepped forward. "I am, sir."

…:::…

After a stressful hour of answering questions and carefully making a case for her value to Cooper while Ressler sat to her left and remained mostly silent (Liz felt he was going to take a long time to lick his wounds over being so thoroughly shut down in front of his peers by Reddington), Liz was led somewhat reluctantly into the part of the facility that overlooked the Box. She looked down through the bank of windows at the man in the chair, red metal support beams forming a diamond around him.

She never thought she'd have this chance. She never thought she'd ever seen him in person again. And now they were allowing her one-on-one access to him.

One-on-one… with a surveillance feed. But she could overlook that.

Liz exhaled loudly, preparing herself.

"If you need anything, we're right here," Cooper said. She nodded, and stepped forward.

Liz walked through the door at the top of the stairs and reached a hand out toward the railing. Reddington looked up to see who they'd chosen to offer, who they'd chosen to make him deal with, and an appreciative Mona Lisa smile softened his features.

The box slid back, mechanical beeps signaling the movement as it went. Liz walked slowly toward the chair they'd sat in front of Reddington, working hard to keep her face placid and pleasant.

"And you are?" Reddington said, looking her up and down.

"Agent Keen," she answered, sitting and crossing her legs.

"What a pleasure," he said perfunctorily. He seemed slightly bored, and ready to progress with his schedule of activities now that he had a suitable audience. "I suppose you want to know why I'm here?"

"We can get to that," Liz said. She smiled, trying to throw him off a little. She paused, regarding him. "You cut your hair. You look much less… deviant."

Reddington narrowed his eyes, curious as to how this young woman knew of his most recent hairstyle—ah, no, of course. Those wretched Most Wanted posters. He wished he could burn them all. He pursed his lips, and asked, "So why you, Agent Keen? Why did they involve _you_ in this mess?"

Her smile broadened. "I think you'll find I'm… special."

Reddington raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're certainly pretty…" He tilted his head to one side, his expression hardening some. "They must think I can be easily manipulated by an attractive female agent. They obviously don't know me very well."

"Maybe not. But I know you _very_ well."

Reddington gave her a curious look, as if he wished he had time to discuss her assertion more thoroughly, but instead rolled his eyes and began, "Within the hour Ranko Zamani is going to abduct the daughter of…"

Liz watched him talk, knowing that she didn't need to pay attention to the finer details, since this conversation was being recorded from about eight different angles. He looked good. Healthy. The hair was short—it was a bit of a shock, if she was honest—but it suited him, and he was thinner than he'd been in recent years.

There had been no recognition in his eyes when she'd sat down in front of him, no flash of familiarity when she spoke or said her name. He didn't remember her. He didn't know any of it.

She wasn't entirely sure whether she was relieved, or disappointed. She settled on the opinion that she could be both.

Reddington finished by admitting that he'd been the one to get Zamani into the country, and added, "I know you probably don't believe me—"

"I'll always believe you," Liz said firmly.

Reddington gave a short, harsh laugh. "But I'm a criminal. Criminals are notorious liars."

"Are you lying about Zamani? About the girl?" Liz asked evenly.

"No."

"Okay then." Liz stood up and motioned to the guards to start the sequence to close Reddington back up in his Box. A small part of her screamed that she should sit back down, that this interaction wasn't nearly enough, and that there was no guarantee she'd get another chance, but she swallowed and looked down at Reddington, still strapped, hands and legs, to his chair. She managed a smile that she hoped was non-threatening, but slightly conspiratorial. "We've got work to do. And you know… in future… you don't have to make this difficult. If there's anyone who can give you a second chance… it's me."

...:::…

"What were you doing in there? Flirting with him?" Ressler asked angrily as Liz joined him and Cooper again.

"I was establishing value, just like _he was_ by giving us that information about Zamani and the girl," Liz said, pointing at Reddington.

"You didn't have to—"

"I made myself interesting," she interrupted. "Now he's intrigued, a little off-balance, and I bet he's willing to talk to me again."

"This is ridiculous, if anyone should be in there talking to him, it should be _me_. I've been the case agent on this guy for five years, I should—"

"Yeah, and five years has gotten you what?" Liz snapped, a territorial flame licking through her. She'd made contact, and she'd be damned if Ressler was going to elbow her out of this now.

Ressler's glare was slightly wounded, but mostly just pissed off. A small part of Liz hoped this wouldn't put a damper on their workplace friendship, but really—she couldn't allow anyone else to talk to Reddington. She was _sure_ he didn't recognize her… but there was always the possibility that he had all of the information, and just didn't associate it with _her_. So she had to remain his contact in the FBI. At least until she found out how much he knew.

…:::…

TBC.

...:::...

The second half of The Pilot will be posted tomorrow! It just needs some clean up. Also? I have no idea how many of these I'm going to do. I doubt I can do every episode without getting bored or going insane or having my husband serve me with divorce papers. Maybe I'll skip around and just do my favorites? The important ones? I don't know. I have no idea.


	2. Pilot Part 2

*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: I'm really enjoying the idea of Liz and Red being more evenly matched. This is fun to write. Plus? I'm getting to rewatch old episodes. I might... MIGHT... do a few more of these over the hiatus...

Fair warning: We're still not deviating much. I have some differences planned in my head, but right now, we're following canon.

...:::...

Chapter 2: The Pilot Part 2

…:::…

Liz bit down on her urge to say _'I told you so'_ when the girl was taken. Nobody was happy about it, but the hollow feeling in the pit of Liz's stomach was almost unbearable when her mind flashed back to the scared look Beth had given her in the over-turned car, just before she was lifted away amidst a cloud of tear-inducing smoke. They'd taken her _from her hands_. And she hadn't been able to stop it.

They needed more information. She still didn't understand what Reddington's endgame was. He'd turned himself in today, with this case, for a reason. He must be working with Zamani in some way. He was using him, undoubtedly, but Raymond Reddington surely had additional information about the girl. Or at least where Zamani would have taken her. Or his purpose.

"I need your help with Zamani." Liz asked that she be allowed to approach Reddington more casually this time, and was granted her request. He remained shackled (really, she didn't see what purpose that served other than to distract her terribly; she thought it was overkill, considering the facility they were in), but she was given permission to join him inside the box after she'd pointed out that the restraints were surely enough to keep him from tearing her limb from limb. Or whatever else they mistakenly thought he was capable of.

"Earlier you were quite willing to delay the business-talk and discuss the length of my hair. Let's have another… polite conversation," Reddington suggested instead.

Liz wanted nothing more than to ask a laundry list of personal questions, watch his face while he listened to her talk, listen to him talk, possibly even make him smile… But she needed information, and not only Beth's safety, but both of theirs as well, depended on her steering the conversation away from _them_ and toward Zamani.

"I can get you out of this chair," Liz offered. Reddington seemed slightly more interested. "But you have to come upstairs with me. I want to show you a few things, just… tell me what might be helpful. I don't think I'm going to find this girl without your help."

"You seem an intelligent and motivated sort, Agent Keen. Why don't you think you'll succeed at finding her?"

"Because we need to look at this differently. We need to find Zamani to find the girl, and to find him… It's going to take thinking like a criminal." She nodded matter-of-factly at Reddington. "And right now, you're my criminal."

…:::…

Liz watched as Reddington moved along the boards, scanning their intel and pictures and clippings. She admired his intelligence, and wit, and his incredible memory for names, faces, and connections. She admired a lot about this man, and it made her heart ache that more people didn't know what she knew about him. Most people she worked with thought he was a monster.

When Reddington turned to Liz, his eyes trained on hers expectantly, she moved forward, eager to prove that she deserved his continued attention. She'd been silently working on an idea as he spoke, and when she stepped forward, she was quick to describe the connection between the banker, the Chemist, and Zamani. As the agents around them scrambled to move on the new working theory, Reddington moved over to Liz, dropping his voice so only she could hear. "I have a contact, they call him the Innkeeper," he offered, and Liz could tell she was being given a reward for connecting the dots correctly. "Lean on him, he'll tell you where the Chemist is. You find the Chemist, you find Zamani."

Liz nodded, sure there was more to this additional, seemingly freely given piece of information. "And where can we find this Innkeeper?"

"Tit for tat, Agent Keen. I'll tell you, but in return, I want out of these restraints. No more cages. Zamani is going to worry if he can't get in contact with me soon—I got him in to this country, and he'll probably want to use my contacts for various other things while he's here. I need to be out and about, moving freely, staying at one of my favorite hotels…"

Liz nodded. "I'll see what I can do. I'll get your things returned to you as well: your tie, hat."

Reddington's eyes cut quickly to hers. His mouth worked like he had thought better of what he wanted to say, and swallowed it before it made a sound. "Thank you," he said finally, in a careful voice.

…:::…

As Reddington looked around the expensive suite and nodded in satisfaction, the hotel concierge stopped at an occasional table in the main room to set down a silver tray. "Complimentary champagne, sir, and as requested, the bed has been made up with blankets instead of a comforter."

Liz watched as Reddington quirked an eyebrow briefly, an easy smile quickly covering the reaction. If she hadn't been specifically watching for it, she would have missed it. Reddington thanked the man, motioning to Ressler as if to indicate he was to tip the concierge for his trouble as he moved across the room toward where Liz stood, leaning against an open doorframe. He moved close into her personal space, and she willed her posture to remain casual, but oh, she could smell his cologne…or soap…or whatever it was, and it smelled wonderful. _'Keep it professional, Keen, for both your sakes,'_ she told herself. Dropping his voice and inclining his head towards her conspiratorially, he murmured, "Why do I get the feeling that the blankets on the bed—which I prefer, but did not ask for—are there because of a request _you_ made?"

Liz swallowed and took a patient breath, a mild smile on her face. "Tell me where to find the Innkeeper."

…:::…

Hours later, Liz sat in a neighboring suite at the hotel, watching the closed-circuit feed of Reddington eating his dinner, alone, in his room. As if he knew she was watching, he gave the same smirk he'd given her earlier, and raised his wine glass slightly. He'd asked for scotch and been denied, but she'd managed to sneak an order to room service to include a bottle of one of his favorite (albeit less expensive) wines with the meal instead.

She'd been watching him eat since he sat down, unable to tear her eyes away. She was vaguely aware that her lips were parted and she'd started to breath faster, but watching him make eye contact with the camera as if thanking her for the bottle that he had no proof she'd arranged for him was one of the most—

"They found the lab—" Ressler interrupted.

Liz jumped, feeling like she'd been caught by a parent looking at racy magazines. She pushed back from the table, irritated that she'd miss the end of the meal. She had a theory that she would have enjoyed watching the dessert course. "I'm going to get out of here. Clear my head, take a shower."

"You should probably say hi to your husband at some point today, too," Ressler pointed out rudely.

Liz sighed. "Oh, damn." She closed her eyes.

"What?"

She'd entirely missed the adoption meeting. She hadn't even called to tell Tom she wouldn't make it. "Nothing," she said resignedly. "Don't worry, I won't go too far…"

…:::…

Liz crept quietly in the front door, steeling herself for the argument she felt certain was on the schedule for the evening's events. As she walked into the living room, her stomach dropped. A bundle of pink balloons and a sign announced, 'IT'S A GIRL'.

She was supposed to want this. Right? She was married, she had a good job; biological clocks were supposed to be ticking, weren't they? She was the age that you were _supposed_ to…?

A girl. Okay. She could do this. Tom wanted this, and no matter what impossible fantasies she had about other, unattainable men, she loved her husband. She did. He was a good man. He was simple. This part of her life could be simple, and Simple wanted a child. It's not like she had to go through pregnancy and give birth—this was adoption. She could do this. She could do this for him. For their marriage.

She used what she felt was the last of her waning energy to plaster a grin on her face, pick up the waiting glass of champagne, and make her way into the kitchen. "Babe! They said yes? And it's a girl! Oh, I know you wanted a boy, but I'm sure this is going to be—" Liz stopped short, rounding on the dining table to find her still, silent husband was not silent by choice.

"Oh my God, Tom—?!" Liz dropped the champagne glass, rushing toward where Tom sat, bloodied and half-unconscious, duct taped to a dining chair. Before she could get there, the hard muzzle of a gun pressed under one of her shoulder blades, and she froze.

"Mrs. Keen. Welcome home. Have a seat." Zamani pulled the gun from her back and walked around behind Tom. "Sit, please. Or I kill your husband."

Gasping for breath, wanting to sob at the sight of her innocent husband, his head lolling to one side, one eye swelled shut, Liz sat heavily, straining forward in Tom's direction.

"Life is so funny, don't you think? I'm sent here, and here you are! _Both_ of you." Zamani took a seat across from Liz. " _Tom_ and I," Zamani stressed the name as if he found it amusing, "have just been talking about how you might have known where to find my friend the Chemist? He _claims_ he doesn't know, but… Do you think your husband is a good liar, Agent Keen?"

"Oh, God, Tom? You're going to be okay," Liz moaned, failing to keep her voice steady. She'd never meant for any of the dangers of her job to find their way back here, to their home…

"Hey—" Zamani snapped a tattooed hand in her face, trying to direct her attention back to him. "You're obviously not paying much attention. So I'll keep this short. You knew about the Chemist; what else do you know? And _how do you know it_?"

"We knew about the Chemist, that's it, that's all, we know there's a bomb, but we don't know anything else, please, I _swear_ —"

Zamani stabbed Tom viciously in the leg, and Liz gasped in horror as she watched red blossom out across his pants from where the hilt of the knife protruded from his thigh. " _You son of a bitch!_ " she cried.

"Hmm. I think I believe you." Zamani straightened as tears began to pour down Liz's cheeks. Tom's moans quieted, and his head began to droop forward. "This has all been a very interesting visit, meeting the two of you here. Quite surprising. But now I think it's time for me to take my leave. And you, my dear," Zamani leaned across the table toward Liz. "You have a choice. You can stop me, stop my plans, save _many_ lives… Or you can stay, and save only _one_ ," Zamani snarled, pulling the knife from Tom's thigh, and driving it into his gut.

Liz jumped from her seat with a cry and stuffed a napkin quickly round the knife, careful not to give in to the urge to withdraw it. She grabbed her cell phone and dialed 911, pleading with her husband to keep his eyes open, and to stay with her.

…:::…

Liz strode quickly down the hallway to Reddington's suite, furious and betrayed. She had half a mind to burst into his room and tell him everything, explain who she was, who she knew him to be, and why she had wanted so desperately to work with him when he'd landed so neatly in her lap at the Post Office that morning.

Instead, she settled for picking up a lamp and flinging it at the wall, where the fragile ceramic body of it shattered spectacularly.

Reddington looked up from his crossword, surprised.

" _You_ came to _us_! You came to us, and I've done nothing but _help_ you, _listen_ to you; if you only _knew_ what I've—" Liz bit down on her sentence, not allowing the rest to escape. "You sent Zamani to my _home? Why?_ "

" _Your_ home?" Reddington asked quizzically.

"My husband is on a _ventilator_ right now because of you! I thought we were—?" Liz turned away from the table, unable to look at him anymore as she tried to hold back tears.

"Calm down; tell me what happened," Reddington instructed.

"Don't play stupid, you're the only thing connecting us," Liz snapped. "He said he was _sent_. I'm guessing that was by _you_."

"Zamani was at _your_ house?" Reddington asked intensely. "He attacked _your_ husband?"

"God, it's like you're not even listening…" Liz whispered to no-one, looking at the ceiling, her hands on either side of her head in frustration.

"Agent Keen, what is your husband's name?"

"What?" she asked, distracted and confused by the seeming unimportance of the answer to his question.

"His _name_ ," Reddington repeated sternly.

Liz tossed her hands up, turning back to face the man at the table. "Tom. Tom Keen."

Reddington's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, as if the information didn't make sense. "And you're sure it was Zamani?"

"Yes!" Liz cried. " _Why the hell was he in my house? Why is my husband dying in a hospital right now? Why did you do this?_ " She tried to keep the plea out of her voice, the note of betrayal. She was ashamed to admit that—while she was horrified and concerned for Tom—she was almost more upset by this act of war against her, when she'd done so _much_ for him…

Reddington frowned, pursing his lips. "The truth is, despite your feelings, _apparently_ … your husband doesn't _matter_ ; Zamani did you a favor, Agent Keen—"

Liz grabbed the silver pen from the table top and swung around behind Reddington. With precision, she jammed it into his neck. Reddington's right hand flew to Liz's, covering it, and she leaned to murmur in his other ear, "I just punched a hole in your carotid. Best chance one minute until you pass out. Now you tell me how I find Zamani and make this right, or I let you die right here. Understand?" Even as Liz made the threat, she felt nauseated, and mentally calculated how long it would take her to get to her cell phone and call 911 for the second time today. How had she gone from watching in horror as the man she married was stabbed, to being the one to stab the man she—

"Well done, Agent Keen… I'm impressed. This is the closest anyone's gotten to killing me in quite some time. But the problem tonight is… if I die… you'll never know the truth about your husband," Reddington said, a slight smile ghosting across his lips as his eyelids fluttered.

"You know nothing about my husband," Liz said, her heart aching. Horrified, she withdrew the pen and tossed it back onto the crossword, fleeing from the room before she burst into tears or threw up. She'd imagined being in the same room as Raymond Reddington for years, and now that she had the chance, she was assaulting him.

What the hell was wrong with her?

…:::…

The next morning, her hands and knees raw from crouching on the carpet, scrubbing at the stains of her husband's blood for the better part of the night, Liz walked into the hospital where Reddington had been treated. Ressler tried to block her entrance to the room, but after she swore not to lay a finger on him, he let her by, exacting a quick promise that her visit would last no more than five minutes.

Ressler didn't have to worry—Reddington was gone. Panicked, Liz leaned out the open window, catching sight of his form striding away across the parking lot below. _'No,'_ she thought, dashing back out of the room toward the elevator. _'He can't be gone, not yet, not yet—we're not done—'_

"Keen! _Liz!_ Stop!" Ressler called down the hall after her as she shouted that they'd lost him. "We fitted him with a tracker—he's not going to get far!"

…:::…

Sitting beside Zamani at the Lincoln Memorial, Reddington stared out over the calm water in front of them. "How did things go last night?" he asked carefully.

"I paid the man a visit. Like you asked. He would not talk. Even when I asked… not so nicely."

"And Agent Keen?"

"You neglected to mention that the woman hunting us was married to the target." Zamani studied his companion with a small smile just touching his eyes. "I did not take you for a man who springs surprises on those he works with, but I must say… it was a welcome one."

Reddington licked his lips and tilted his head, deep in thought. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said vaguely.

The pair of men walked the length of the mall, the monument at their backs, discussing the state of the world now, and how different it was from the world they'd grown up in. But when Zamani mentioned children and targets Reddington hadn't initially been aware of, Reddington made an excuse and took his leave, embracing his old friend tightly, a look of disappointment on his face.

As soon as he cleared Zamani's line of sight, Reddington bumped into a well-dressed man, apologized politely, and walked away with the man's cell phone. He dialed Liz.

"There's a wrinkle," he said immediately when Liz answered. "Zamani's after more than just making an example of the girl; he's after children."

"Reddington?" Liz asked, slightly taken aback that he had chosen to call her with information. She figured now that he was in the wind, he'd be gone. Ressler was convinced the tracking chip was going to lead them straight to Reddington, but Liz had declined when she was invited to tag along with them. She knew Reddington was too smart. The minute he went out the hospital window, that chip had been removed. She was sure of it.

Not only had he chosen to make contact again, but he'd chosen to contact _her_. Her chest gave a little thrill at the thought.

How did he even have her number?

"Where are you?" Liz said.

Reddington ignored her question. "I need you to tell me more about what Zamani said when he was at your house last night. Tell me everything you remember about him, what did he say; what did you see? We need to figure out where he plans to set off this bomb."

"The DC Zoo," Liz answered matter-of-factly.

"And why do you think that?" Reddington asked, striding quickly down the busy street.

"He had what I initially thought was a tattoo on the back of one hand, but then I remembered: he's Serbian Orthodox, no way he'd have a tattoo. And it looked so familiar; I knew I'd seen the symbol somewhere before, and while I was driving across town I saw it on a billboard. It's the logo for the DC Zoo. You get your hand stamped when you go in."

"Well done, Agent Keen," Reddington said, his tone impressed. If Liz hadn't been so stressed at that particular moment, she'd have reveled in it, but as it was, she had other things on her mind.

"Reddington, I need to hang up the phone," she said.

"Yes, you need to get to the DC Zoo and—"

"I'm already there. I need to find Beth." Liz hung up and pocketed her phone.

After ten frantic minutes of dashing through between enclosures, along paths, and across the grounds—this place was bigger than she remembered—Liz finally saw her, sitting alone in a pink jacket on a park bench.

"Beth?" Liz asked, slightly out of breath as she approached her. "Hey sweetie, are you hurt?" The girl shook her head. "Good. Are you alone?"

Beth nodded. "But the man told me to wait right here, and not take my jacket off. I'm not allowed to take it off, or my dad won't come to get me."

Liz leaned around to look at the pink backpack the girl was wearing. Red digital numbers were visible through the fabric. Just then, her cell phone began to ring again. Fishing it from her back pocket, she recognized the number from earlier. "Reddington, I found her, he strapped the device to her. I need to call the bomb squad, get this place evacuated—"

"Your people will never be there in time. I'm sending someone to you, my friend will know what to do with it." Reddington hung up.

"Reddington?" Liz asked, the line dead. She pocketed her phone quickly and knelt next to the girl. Less than a minute later, a man jogged over to them, smiling pleasantly. He immediately crossed behind Beth and began to unzip the backpack. "Wait, who are you? Did Reddington send you? Can you diffuse the bomb?" Liz asked, standing up. The man continued to smile, and began chattering at her in another language. "I don't understand— _can you diffuse the bomb?_ " she repeated.

"Are we going to be okay?" Beth asked in a frightened voice.

Liz knelt back down in the grass and took Beth's hands. "Yeah, baby, we're going to be okay," Liz said soothingly. "Beth, honey, I need you to be very brave for me. Can you be brave?"

"I think so?" Beth answered timidly.

"You know what I do when I need to be brave? I have a good luck charm, and it helps me when I'm sad or afraid. It's very special. Do you want to see it?"

Beth nodded.

Liz held out her arm, and pulled her sleeve up to expose her right wrist. A thick, ropey scar wound its way up her forearm. "A very strong man gave this to me. Any time I'm frightened, I touch it, like this," Liz pressed her left index and middle finger to it, almost as if she were taking her pulse. "And I think of him, and how courageous he is, and it makes me brave. Do you wanna try? See if it can make _you_ brave?" Beth nodded, and Liz withdrew her fingers, allowing room for Beth's to take their place.

"Who's the bravest person you know?" Liz asked, trying to take her mind off the beeps that were coming steadily from the device as the man worked on it.

"My dad," Beth said. "Was the man who gave you this your dad?" she asked, running her small fingers over Liz's scar.

Liz attempted a smile that ended up as more of a wince, and opened her mouth to reply, just as the man behind them jumped up with a shout of exaltation in his native language, and unzipped the backpack, pulling the device from the bag. He leaned forward, grinning, to press a kiss into Liz's hair, and patted Beth on her head as he jogged away again.

"Wait! Stop!" Liz shouted after him.

"He's going to consider the device as payment for services rendered," Reddington said, striding up the grassy hill behind Liz.

"That's a _chemical weapon_!" Liz cried, still shaken by the fact that she'd been less than two minutes from being blown to pieces.

"He's fascinated by the things. He certainly has more use for it than we do."

Ressler and the rest of the team burst through the archway at the other end of the small park and began sprinting toward them. Reddington calmly placed his hands behind his head, anticipating being manhandled into yet another pair of handcuffs.

"Nice trick, pulling your chip and planting it on Zamani," Ressler muttered as he jogged to a stop behind Reddington. "But if you think that wins you any goodwill points with me, you're wrong."

As Ressler pulled Reddington's hands down one at a time and secured them in restraints, Liz sat down on the bench, her adrenaline surge wearing off quickly. She looked up at Reddington, amazed. "You led us to Zamani…?" she asked, her question rhetorical. Reddington gave a slight smile and tilted his head to one side. Liz nodded, not finding the energy to return his smile, as she added thoughtfully, "We could make a great team."

Reddington bobbed his head. "This _was_ fun, wasn't it?"

Liz raised her eyebrows, not entirely sure almost getting blown up and poisoning half of DC aligned with her definition of 'fun', but she shrugged her shoulders, tossing her hands in the air and sighing. "Sure. _Lots_ of fun; we should do it again," she said, somewhat sarcastically.

Reddington's smile widened knowingly. "What a wonderful idea."

…:::…

Cooper and Ressler had refused Liz's request to sit in on Reddington's debriefing, so she had to hear the details second-hand from Ressler later that afternoon. He rattled off the high points of their meeting, in a mood so sour Liz thought it was surely a new low in terms of his attitude. Which was really saying something.

Reddington never slept in the same place for more than two nights in a row, and had demanded a fully-encrypted 8mm tag in his neck, turning his nose up at the alpha chip he'd so easily pulled from his arm the first time. He'd demanded his own security team, allowing Cooper to pick two from a shortlist of five he'd put together himself. He'd informed them he'd need an immunity package that he claimed he would negotiate himself, and as a final demand—one that had confused Cooper, enraged Ressler, and flattered Liz more than she allowed herself to show—he'd stated that from that point forward, he'd speak only with Elizabeth Keen.

…:::…

Liz found the money, passports, and gun that evening.

As she sat crouched on the floor of her dining room, her thoughts ran back over what Reddington had said when she attacked him with his own pen. _'You'll never know the truth about your husband.'_ He'd seemed honestly confused when she'd told him Zamani had been in her house. He'd asked what her husband's name was. Had Tom been the primary target of that attack all along? No. It would have been too great a coincidence for Reddington to target Tom without it being in some way related to her. He must have sent Zamani after her husband just to intimidate her… unless he _did_ remember her. Unless he was aware of their connection.

Were these passports planted? Was this a misdirect by Reddington? Or was he confused by the name _Tom Keen_ because he knew her husband by a different name? Liz scanned over the half dozen names on the passports again.

Liz _had_ to find out how much he knew.

…:::…

Stepping into the cell, bright light streaming in behind her, she licked her lips unconsciously as she watched Reddington slowly lift his head, blinking as his eyes adjusted. He focused on Liz's face, and sighed.

"You've discovered something curious about your husband, haven't you, Agent Keen?"

…:::…

TBC... probably...

...:::...

Reviews make me write the next chapter faster. :)


	3. The Freelancer Part 1

*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This is so much fun. :)

...:::...

Chapter 3: The Freelancer Part 1

…:::…

“I was thoroughly vetted when I was brought on at the Post Office. Are additional polygraphs really necessary?”

Over the next several days, Liz dutifully submitted to the entire process again, answering question after question about her knowledge of Reddington, why she thought he’d turned himself in—she liked those because she could answer that she had no idea, truthfully and without having to concentrate on her phrasing—and why she was so eager to be the one he talked to.

“Honestly, I feel like I know him. I’ve been assisting Agent Ressler on his case for years, and I’ve even been in the same city with him. At one point I was officially brought along on one of the attempts to capture him in Europe, for additional insight.”

“It doesn’t seem your presence was helpful. Reddington obviously wasn’t captured,” the other agent noted stoically.

“When the details of the operation changed at the last minute, Agent Ressler tried to kill him.” Liz shrugged, watching the polygrapher evenly. “Things kind of went south from there.”

…:::…

“Give me an update. What’s happening?” Liz said, falling into step next to Ressler. She shrugged on her jacket, having just finished the last round of what her bosses were calling ‘interviews’ but which Liz felt had been more like ‘interrogations’.

“Reddington claims there’s going to be some kind of incident at the Decatur Industrial Park today at 11am. He won’t give us any more than that, and the people upstairs are pushing back on his immunity deal. That’s all you get.”

“So when do we leave for the Industrial Park?” Liz asked.

“ _We_?” Ressler said, shaking his head as he stepped on to the elevator and blocked her following him with a steadying palm. “You stay here. I know you’re technically a field agent, Keen, but when was the last time you were out of the Post Office on a case?”

The elevator doors slid closed, and Liz clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to kick something.

…:::…

“Sixty people are dead because of you,” Cooper said, gazing up at the closed circuit feed of Reddington in the Box on the monitor above him.

“Sixty people are dead because you don’t return my calls, Harold. You want to save lives and catch the bad guys, pay attention,” Reddington replied disrespectfully, sitting calmly in the chair, his shackles back in place.

“They’re not going to grant you your deal,” Cooper warned.

“That’s unfortunate,” Reddington said, his tone bored. “The next name on my list is an absolute snake.”

“His list?” Liz asked, stepping forward. “He has more people he wants to give up?”

Cooper turned to glare at the junior agent, and Ressler was quick to grab Liz by the bicep and back her up several steps, a look of admonishment on his face.

“The train. How did you know?” Cooper began again.

“I know lots of things,” Reddington said confidently, not bothering to look at the camera. “But the train I didn’t. I knew the time, the place, but the train was a big surprise.”

“We’ve ruled out terrorism,” Ressler chimed in.

“Ah! Good afternoon, Donald. No, this was not terrorism. Look at the list of casualties. You’ll find some councilwoman from Albany. Apparently she’s been tangling with some rather cunning, powerful people.”

“You’re saying the derailment was an assassination attempt?” Ressler asked, dubious.

“I’m not saying anything to you, Donald,” Reddington said, glancing back up at the camera. “I thought I made that part clear.” He tilted his head and a smile played across his face as he narrowed his eyes. “Where’s that pretty agent from a few days ago? The clever one?”

All eyes in the room turned to look at Liz, who felt like she’s just had a bucket of ice water dumped down her back. She swallowed, and looked up at the monitor, where Reddington’s image appeared to be staring straight at her as he added, “Elizabeth Keen…?”

…:::…

“Tell me about the train wreck.” Liz had again been granted permission to get close, approach Reddington. She sat on the bench beside him. She wished she’d had more luck convincing them he didn’t need to be tied down to his chair—she felt badly about his treatment, and knew he had to be getting uncomfortably stiff, unable to move for hours at a time. She wondered when the last time he’d been able to stand was.

“Agent Keen. It’s lovely to see you again.” Reddington smiled at her.

Liz took his avoidance of her question as a cue to try a different topic on conversation first. She tilted her head, studying him. “I understand you traveled quite far to see us, Red.”

Reddington quirked an eyebrow at the nickname. “How’s your husband?” he countered.

“Still on the ventilator,” Liz said without hesitation or emotion. “Why did you travel all this way to turn yourself in, with no guarantee of an immunity deal?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions today, Agent Keen.”

“Why don’t you call me Liz.” Reddington’s eyes had dropped to her right hand, but they flicked quickly back up to her face as she continued, “Since it appears that we’ll be working fairly closely with each other for the next little while.”

“Will we?” he asked, his voice carefully light.

“I understand you have a list of names. The train wreck has something to do with the next name on that list.” Liz shifted forward, leaning toward Reddington, her face serious. “You turned yourself in for a purpose. Let’s get back to that. Tell me everything you know about the train wreck.”

After a long moment, Reddington bobbed his head, and began to explain the man called The Freelancer. Liz listened carefully. “He’s responsible for a slew of other premeditated killings just like this one, disguised as accidents.” Reddington paused, then asked, “Shall I go on?” He looked down at his restraints pointedly, turning his hands over as much as he was able to, his palms up. When he glanced back up to Liz, he could tell she was doing her best to hide a smile.

…:::…

Liz watched from her perch on the edge of a desk as Reddington went into great detail about their next target, standing in the center of the main floor of the Post Office, obviously enjoying his platform and the attention. _‘ENTJ’_ she thought to herself, reveling in the chance to profile Reddington in person. _‘Charisma, confidence, able to project authority and command a room…’_ Reddington made a particularly cold comment about an assassination that took the lives of more than a hundred innocent bystanders, and she mentally added, _‘with a ruthless level of rationality_.’ She was sure he’d planned his surrender out ten steps ahead, and she mentally tried to remain on task instead of giving in to the urge to grin across the room at him like an appreciative schoolgirl. She adored his intelligence. She couldn’t _wait_ to see what his end game was.

“And where is this intermediary you need to meet with?” Ressler asked.

“Montreal… I’ll set a meeting.” Reddington nodded in Liz’s direction. “You should come.”

All eyes were once again on Liz. “ _Me_? _I_ should--? Why?” She fought to keep her face professional.

“It’ll be fun. Just the two of us. No wires, no clumsy agents in the bushes.” Reddington tilted his head vaguely in Ressler’s direction. “You keep asking me personal questions; this should give us a chance to actually have that conversation.”

Ressler bristled. “Agent Keen is a profiler, she’s not one of our usual field—“

“Donald, if you want me to make an introduction, you need to trust me with my source.” Ressler fumed, but waved a dismissive hand in Reddington’s direction as he turned away. Cooper nodded reluctantly. “Wonderful! What fun.” Reddington tilted his head and looked back at Liz. “You’ll need a dress.”

…:::…

Reddington had insisted on having a car deliver them both, together, to a restaurant to meet his contact in Montreal. Ressler held the car door open for Liz outside the safe house the team was working from. “Remember, you meet Reddington’s contact, you get the name of the Freelancer’s next victim, and you get out of there. Understood? You’re not here to socialize,” he told Liz.

“I agree with you completely, Donald,” Reddington said over the roof of the car before bending to get in on his side, swinging his door closed behind him with a muted thump. “But it _is_ a restaurant,” he said quietly to Liz, now that they were alone. “And it _is_ dinnertime.” She rewarded him with a slight smile, the corners of her mouth turning up.

…:::…

“Anyone asks, you’re my daughter,” Reddington said quietly into her ear as he led her to the table, his hand on the small of her back.

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. You can be my girlfriend from Ann Arbor,” Reddington allowed, holding Liz’s chair out for her before sitting down opposite her. Liz noticed he’d arranged them in such a way that he was in the seat that afforded him a clear view of the entire restaurant, his back to a solid tiled column. Protection and observation. And he’d managed to pair this calculated positioning perfectly with smooth, gentlemanly behavior. She'd gone to dinner with James Bond.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked as the waiter arrived at their table, and Liz was suddenly loathe to admit she knew nothing about fine wine or craft cocktails. She refused to order her usual glass of chardonnay in front of this man.

She smiled smoothly, nodding her head in his direction. “ _You’re_ the one who speaks French at this table, not me. And you know the restaurant. What should I try?”

Reddington turned to the server and ordered for both of them before turning back to Liz. “You know I speak French.”

“I know you speak _several_ languages,” she replied.

Reddington tapped the table and regarded Liz appreciatively. “Tell me about your job. I realize you _are_ a profiler, but… you still seem to know a lot more about me than you should.”

“It’s my job to know a lot about you.”

“Hmm. How close to the truth do you think you can… _really_ get? Tell me my profile.”

Liz smiled and shook her head. “Trade secrets.”

“Please. Our drinks aren’t even here yet. We have to talk about _something._ Tell me my profile,” he insisted.

Liz took a deep breath. “You’re a loner. You keep your distance, partially for protection but mostly because ‘larger than life’ personalities tend to overpower others, and that makes it difficult for people around you to get close. You’re versatile and adaptable. You’re comfortable here, ordering a glass of expensive scotch, but you’d be just as comfortable sleeping in a cave with rebels or sharing dinner in some hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. You’re detail oriented, with a memory for names, faces, dates… You pride yourself on planning for every eventuality, and always being able to see several steps ahead.” Liz broke eye contact and scanned the restaurant to her left, giving him a moment. She didn’t want him to feel like a bug under a microscope, no matter how much she longed to continue to study his face as she talked. “That’s why you’re so intrigued by me. I know things about you, preferences and details that shouldn’t be out there in the world. I make you uncomfortable, because the level of information I _might_ have… might make you vulnerable.”

Just then, the waiter arrived with their drinks, and as Reddington picked up his glass, he cleared his throat and said, “You mentioned you don’t speak French. How did you know I’d ordered expensive scotch?”

Liz gave a coy smile. “I didn’t. But I know that’s generally your drink of choice.”

Reddington nodded at the martini glass that had been set in front of Liz. “Try yours. Aviation cocktail, from the ‘twenties.”

Liz reached forward and took a sip. She raised her eyebrows in approval. “Tastes like spring,” she said.

Reddington smiled and shifted in his seat, crossing his legs casually. “Now… your turn,” he said quietly.

“My turn?”

“Tell me your profile.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, a teasing note in her voice. When he continued to gaze at her expectantly, Liz gave in. The man deserved something, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she yearned for him to know her better. Know her as a person, not an agent. Her voice lowered as her smile slipped and her expression became more serious. “My colleagues call me sir,” she admitted. “They think I’m a bitch. I can be withdrawn, disconnected. I have a deep yearning to understand and relate to the criminal mind. I’m hesitant to have a child or even adopt one, because I know I can’t rewrite my childhood by having kids of my own.” Liz stopped, wondering why she’d suddenly chosen to give so much away.

Reddington pounced on the information. “You husband’s the one that wants children. Does he know you as well as you know me?”

Liz mentally scrambled to find a new topic; she was not in the mood to discuss Tom. Not until she’d had a chance to do some digging about the box she’d found under her floorboards. “Where is your contact? He’s late.”

“Tell me about that scar,” Reddington said suddenly, looking down at her wrist. Liz realized she was running two fingers along it, her hands on the table in front of her. She quickly moved them into her lap. Reddington narrowed his eyes, confident he’d hit on something important. “I’ve noticed how you… stroke it.”

Liz’s stomach clenched, and her chest ached. ‘ _Damn him,’_ she thought. Why did he have to be so observant? “Where is your contact?” she asked again.

“What’s the story of your scar?” Reddington pushed, ignoring her question. When Liz refused to answer, he sighed, accepting that he’d pushed too far.

After a moment, however, Liz leaned forward, her voice hushed, despite the fact that she knew they were not being monitored on audio by Ressler and the team. Her brow was furrowed, and she asked hesitantly, “What if I were to tell you… that most things people have come to believe about me are a lie?”

Reddington’s eyes locked on hers, and just when Liz had started to regret speaking again, his gaze cut sharply to his left. If Liz hadn’t already been staring at him intently, she would have missed the brief flash of annoyance that passed over Reddington’s face. He looked back at her, gave a regretful smile, and murmured, “Please excuse me for a moment.” He stood gracefully from the table and moved away toward the back of the restaurant.

Almost immediately sirens blazed to life outside on the street, while inside the restaurant the noise level increased with the addition of the fire alarm. Liz shook her head. ‘ _Here we go,’_ she thought, standing calmly and moving toward the exit.

Minutes later, RCMP and FBI officers swarming the premises, Ressler cornered Liz on the street outside.

“You let him go!” he barked at her as they walked toward the main surveillance van.

“He’s not gone,” Liz corrected him. “And _you_ were the one that compromised this op—what’s with the sirens and the show of force? How about a little more finesse next time?”

“There won’t be a next time, Keen, because you let him go! And what do you mean, ‘ _he’s not gone’_?”

“He’s not done with us. He hasn’t gone through this whole charade—turning himself in, the Post Office, restraints, Zamani—just to run. He’s going to turn back up. _I know him_. And besides—“ Liz paused as they arrived at the door to the van and Ressler reached for the handle to swing the door open. “—he wants to talk to me again.”

The door to the van swung open to reveal Reddington, sitting nonchalantly in Ressler’s chair. He continued to study the bank of monitors calmly, not bothering to look up as he greeted them with a sarcastically surprised, yet bored tone of voice.

“Hey there, guys.”

…:::…

TBC.


	4. The Freelancer Part 2

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Seriously, TBL writers. Look how easily you can give Liz some substance and make her worthwhile? She can be intelligent and kick ass. It works.

...:::...

Chapter 4: The Freelancer Part 2

…:::…

After pulling Ressler off of Reddington—“This isn’t helping!” she’d shouted, wedging herself between the two men in the suddenly-crowded van—Liz demanded the three of them sit down to talk about what Reddington’s source had provided him with.

“My contact was the first person I saw when I walked into the place: the coat check attendant. I left payment in my hat, and in exchange, he left a photo of the assassin’s next victim. Floriana Campo.”

“The human rights activist?” Ressler asked.

Liz frowned, and looked down at the floor. Reddington noticed. “Is there a problem, Agent Keen?” he asked.

“No, it’s just… I wrote my senior thesis on _you_ , but only because my first thesis subject didn’t pan out. I intended to write it about Floriana Campo, but…” She shook her head.

“But what?” Reddington asked.

Liz glanced between the two men. “I found… discrepancies. Things that didn’t make sense. I didn’t have the resources to investigate at the time; I figured I was just missing something, but… Something just didn’t feel right.”

Reddington gave her an enigmatic smile. “Well, then. Let’s go to New York and see if we can’t find some answers, hmm?”

…:::…

Floriana Campo could not be talked out of hosting the benefit she was throwing that night. She insisted her security would be all that was necessary, and declined additional FBI protection. Stubbornly, Ressler continued to try to convince her.

“Do either of you have children, Agent Ressler? Agent Keen?”

Liz shook her head, and Ressler gave a curt, “No.”

“There is no work more meaningful than being a mother,” the woman said, directing her comment to Liz. The image of pink balloons in her living room and Tom, lying in a hospital bed immediately sprang to mind, and Liz shifted her weight uncomfortably. “I didn’t have kids of my own,” Floriana continued. “This is my one regret. But these girls that I’m trying to protect; they are my family. Tonight is for them. I won’t cancel.”

“Look, we can’t force you to accept our protection, but we need your help to find the man contracted to kill you. To identify him, to capture him, we need you to cooperate… you’re our only link. Will you help us?” Ressler asked, doing his best to be polite and political.

After a moment, Floriana inclined her head. “Alright.”

…:::…

Ressler and the team did everything they could, changing the venue, the schedule, travel routes. But Liz knew they stood a much better chance of finding the Freelancer if they had Reddington’s help.

“You said you’ve seen this guy,” she said, leaning against the open edge of the Box.

“Once,” Reddington agreed.

“We’re compiling photos of the people who are scheduled to attend the event tomorrow, and I know it’s a long shot, because he’s probably not going to be high profile enough to show up on a guest list, but if you could just look—“

“Please understand, Agent Keen, I want more than anything to help you. It’s the reason why I’m here. But I won’t say another word until the terms of my deal are met.”

“I’ve been told it’s going through right now. Your lawyers drafted it?” Liz asked, happy to see they’d graduated to allowing Reddington the freedom to walk around his Box instead of being continually strapped to the chair, though his hands were still cuffed at his waist.

“No, I did. I represent myself in legal matters.”

Liz nodded. Of course he did. “Your requests for a private security detail were a little difficult to push through with a limited schedule,” Liz explained.

“Ah! Who’d they pick?” Reddington asked, stepping closer.

“Luli Zeng?”

“ _Luli_ …” Reddington said, smiling broadly. “You’ll like her. _Very_ intelligent. PhD from Stanford.”

“And a man called Dembe.”

Reddington’s smile softened, and he pursed his lips, looking out the side of the Box, his eyes unfocused. Nodding, he murmured, “Very good.”

“How long has it been since you saw him?” Liz asked softly.

Reddington’s gaze sharpened and immediately swung back to Liz. “Too long,” he said cryptically, after a moment. Liz didn’t give away the fact that she already knew the answer to her question.

Less than an hour later, the deal was signed, and handed back to Reddington. Liz watched as security removed the shackles from Reddington’s wrists and ankles.

As Ressler demanded again that he look through the list of names scheduled to attend the event, Reddington frowned and looked at Liz. “You know this isn’t the right approach.”

“Hey, I’m right here. Talk to me,” Ressler barked.

“He didn’t RSVP, Ressler,” Liz said patiently.

“I’ve seen the man,” Reddington said, standing up and stretching his neck. “If he shows up tonight, if you’re going to have any hope of identifying him, you need to put me in that room.”

“So you want to go to the party?” Liz smiled at him.

Reddington returned her smile, ignoring Ressler’s grumbling. “Oh, I thought you’d never ask.”

…:::…

“Dembe…” Liz tried to hide how happy she was to see the two men embracing. Dembe’s history was something she was very much aware of, but had never included in any report or ever spoken of officially. He was an imposing figure in person, and Liz could see why Reddington chose him as a bodyguard—he was intimidating, even with his face split open in a happy grin as he wound his arms around what the world thought was simply his employer.

After a moment, Reddington backed away and turned his attention to the woman stepping out of the car behind Dembe. “Luli, my dear…” Reddington wound an arm around her waist, and Liz realized there were worse things in life than hearing a watercolorist’s account of her night spent with Raymond Reddington at an art expo in Basel several years ago. While the artist’s story—which had involved headlocks and vaseline, among several other things—had made Liz’s stomach twist in jealousy, seeing Reddington kiss another woman ten feet from her was somewhat unbearable.

Liz looked away, uncomfortable with how territorial she was about a man she had no rights to whatsoever. She was a married woman; her husband was in a medically induced coma right now, for god’s sake.

She’d never thought she’d get the chance to meet him, _really_ meet him, and interact with him. Admiring him from the safety of her desk over the years had been easy, like enjoying the beauty of a painting you know you can’t take home from a museum, or watching every movie your favorite actor had ever made. There were certain objects that simply weren’t attainable, in the grand scheme of things. Realistically. Wishing for them was a waste of time.

And now the priceless painting she’d been obsessed with for years had found its way out of the museum and practically into her living room. Things were getting more difficult by the second.

“So, is looks like the gang’s all here. Shall we?” Reddington said after pulling away from Luli.

“Actually, there’s one more; Meera Malik. CIA. You’ll meet her on the way to the event,” Ressler said.

“Is she attractive?” Reddington asked.

“I’d go more with ‘treacherous’,” Ressler replied evenly.

Reddington gave a low laugh and turned away toward the cars. “This is gonna be a gas…”

…:::…

Liz spent the first half of the evening trailing behind Reddington as he stalked various servers through the crowd. While Reddington sampled everything that came out on the small silver catering trays, Liz attempted to surreptitiously memorize the way he looked in a well-tailored tuxedo.

After several speeches near the end of the evening, Floriana took the podium to say a few words.

Reddington and Liz stood side by side, scanning those in attendance. Just as Floriana finished her toast and the crowd began to applaud, Reddington nodded in the direction of one of the waiters in a white catering jacket. “It’s him,” he said in a low voice only Liz could hear. “The waiter.” Liz followed his line of sight. “The Freelancer.”

Just then, the man looked in their direction and caught Reddington’s eye. After a moment’s hesitation, he spun and darted off into the crowd.

Liz bolted after him, yelling for him to stop, but those in attendance began to panic, blocking her path forward. Ressler had the better position, and ran to follow him instead, shouting for Liz to stay with the target.

Liz made her way upstairs with Floriana to her private room, the hall thick with security details, private and FBI. Fifteen minutes later her cell phone rang, and she excused herself into another room to take the call, telling Floriana to stay where she was.

“We got him—it was Reddington—Reddington hired the Freelancer,” Ressler said quickly.

“What?” Liz asked, confused, shutting the door behind herself softly. “No. How could he?”

“The coat check attendant; think about it. The coat check didn’t leave the picture in his hat, Reddington left it for him. _He was signaling the hit_.”

“He pointed out the Freelancer as a diversion. He wanted chaos. He wanted to get her alone—“ Liz hung up the phone and spun back to the door, yanking it open to find Reddington standing in the center of the room, facing Floriana.

“Agent Keen,” Reddington said, surprised. “Look at you, sneaking up on people like a ninja. Why don’t you join us?”

“How did you get in here?” Liz asked suspiciously, moving into the room slowly.

“Dembe’s out in the hall discussing international politics with her private security to distract them. Or else he’s rendered them all unconscious; one of the two.” Reddington turned back to Floriana. “As I was saying, I’m amazed you’ve been able to manage it… the duplicity. How does the devil in you contend with the angel?” He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping menacingly. “I would have kicked her out _years_ ago.”

Floriana had been backing slowly toward Liz, and now she extended a fearful hand in her direction, requesting protection. “Please, Elizabeth—this is the man. He’s the one who wants me dead.”

“I know,” Liz said, causing Reddington’s eyes to narrow at her. “Ressler just called. We’ve got the Freelancer. He gave you up as the one who hired him.”

Just then, Floriana faltered, and sank down to her knees, breathing hard.

Liz rushed forward. “What have you done?” she demanded up at Reddington, kneeling next to the woman on the floor.

“Me? I didn’t do anything. That assassin you apprehended may have slipped her a lethal cocktail of the same barbiturates she uses to drug her children.”

Liz looked up at him in shock.

“You were right, Agent Keen,” Reddington continued, stopping to casually smell the flower arrangement on the table. “Things don’t add up with this one because she’s dirty. She’s not the woman the world thinks she is.”

“Shut up, Raymond!” Floriana gasped, doubled over, panicked and furious.

“You _know_ him?” Liz asked.

“Everybody knows this son of a bitch—!” she cried and rolled onto her back on the floor, moaning.

“She knows me because she tried to make me a partner in her trafficking business once upon a time. I turned her down. Our relationship has been on the rocks ever since; which _would_ be a shame… if I’d ever actually liked her in the first place,” Reddington said, shrugging. “Madam Campo doesn’t free children from slavery. She imprisons them. She’s the largest distributor of enslaved children in the Eastern hemisphere. Her foundation is a front to launder the profits of the Eberhardt cartel, which she runs. She’s been eliminating the competition steadily for years now—good God, the woman even had her own husband murdered. I’m sure this clears up some of the questions that came up during your attempted thesis?” Reddington asked Liz.

“Reddington, this isn’t the time, go get me a medic!” Liz demanded as Floriana’s gasping noises quieted. “She’s not breathing! Whatever kind of monster she is, we don’t do _this_ ; we have to bring her in—“ Liz grabbed a pen from the desk beside her and leaned over Floriana to jam it through to her trachea.

“What is it with you in hotel rooms and pens in people’s necks?” Reddington asked nonchalantly.

Ressler and Meera burst into the room past Dembe, and took in the scene with contained horror. “What’s happening?” Ressler demanded.

“Looks like she’s dying…” Reddington said with indifference. He grabbed a piece of fruit from the arrangement on the table and popped it in his mouth while he nodded. “Definitely dying.”

…:::…

By the time the EMTs pronounced Floriana dead at the scene and the initial, on-site debriefs were completed, the sun had come up. Liz and Reddington walked a short way down the pier that stretched out below the hotel the party had been held at the night before and sat on a long bench.

“How long ago were you writing that thesis?” Reddington asked her, staring out over the water. He’d sat at the other end of the bench, as far from her as he could get and still remain on the same surface. “I’m very impressed that you recognized that there was something wrong with the image she’d so carefully crafted for the public to see.”

“I didn’t know. I had no idea she was _so_ … There were just… discrepancies. I should have kept looking. At the time.” Liz shook her head. How many lives could she have saved if she’d been able to expose Floriana Campo for what she was _years_ ago?

“Don’t put this all on your shoulders. Many people who knew exactly what she was could have taken her down before now. The important thing is it’s finished. She preyed on the weak and the innocent while dressed in the wings of a savior.”

“You knew her personally.”

“I detested everything about her,” Reddington corrected.

Liz felt a surge of sympathy for him. Having to deal with these types of people on a regular basis obviously left a terrible taste in his mouth. As much as Raymond Reddington played the part of the international criminal mastermind, Liz knew he hated it. She knew why he did it, and it broke her heart that—for both of their safety—she had to let him continue to do it. For now.

After a moment, Reddington changed the subject. “What are you going to do about this situation with your husband?”

Liz cut her eyes to the side to look at him, but Reddington continued to look out over the water. “What situation?” she asked quietly.

“What do you know already?” Reddington asked carefully.

Liz swallowed. “I’m not sure if my husband is… who I thought he was.”

Reddington nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Liz watched a woman walk past them, walking a small dog, a baby in a carrier across her chest. “Not yet,” she answered softly.

…:::…

TBC.


	5. Wujing

*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: The beginning of this episode and the end of this episode lent themselves nicely to my rearranging, but the middle section didn't need adjusting--I figure occasionally this is going to happen. So if you feel like you're just reading a transcript in the middle section, don't think I've gotten lazy. It just fit my alternative narrative without me needing to change much.

...:::...

Chapter 5: Wujing

…:::…

It wasn’t the passports or the money that bothered Liz most. It was the gun.

Which is why she crept out of bed, put several phone books in a bucket of water outside, and waited for the garbage truck to begin its weekly morning symphony of screeches and bangs before firing a round from the gun.

She needed it analyzed.

Later that morning, as she sat across from Tom at their dining table, Liz found herself apologizing for having to keep secrets about her work. Apologizing to her _husband_ for hiding things from _him_.

She found it ironic, and it soured the taste of her coffee.

“Just tell me something. Who was he?” Tom asked.

“He’s gone. He was killed,” Liz assured him.

“So it’s over?”

Liz cringed internally. It was far from over. She thought about the ziplock bag with a spent round and casing in her purse. “Yes,” she lied.

“Look, I love you—“ Tom was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“That’s Ellie,” Liz said, grateful for the excuse to end the conversation. She rose from the table to answer the door.

“I just hate there are things you have to hide from me,” Tom called after her.

‘ _Pot calling the kettle black, babe,’_ Liz thought ruefully. “Remember, Ellie’s not just bringing breakfast, she’s taking you to physical therapy today—“

…:::…

The minute she got to work, she made a beeline for the ballistics lab and handed over the round for analysis, to be run against other crimes.

She knew it wasn’t exactly ‘by the book’, but what was the point of being an FBI agent if you couldn’t occasionally use government resources to confirm your husband wasn’t a spy…?

…:::…

“Agent Keen, splendid. I need a woman’s opinion. Charcoal? Or dark slate?” Reddington palmed a grey fedora onto his head and held another in his hand up for comparison. Liz didn’t answer immediately, looking carefully around the custom milliner’s shop with curiosity. She didn’t know anyone who would ever buy a hat from a shop like—‘ _No, wait,’_ she corrected herself, ‘ _I know *him*.’_

“In all honesty, Red, they look exactly the same to me. And I told you, you don’t have to call me ‘Agent Keen’,” she reminded him. Reddington turned to replace one of the hats on the shelf—Liz wondered idly if it was the charcoal or slate that had been discarded—and turned back to face her, smiling.

“Please tell me you didn’t call me down here just to offer my opinion between two similar hats?” she asked.

“An opportunity has come our way. Yesterday, the Chinese killed a CIA agent in Shanghai. They took his computer, which they thought could decode a message they intercepted. It couldn’t. They’ve asked me for help.”

Liz looked pointedly at the man behind the counter, ringing up and packaging the chosen hat.

“Oh, Roderick is a dear old friend,” Reddington said, dismissing her silent concerns about privacy and potential exposure.

“I’m sorry. You’re decoding CIA messages on behalf of the Chinese?” she asked, suspicious.

“Now, see, you make it sound like treason,” Reddington said, grinning at her. “So black and white.”

“While you obviously prefer shades of grey,” Liz noted as the boxed hat was handed to Reddington across the counter.

“No, this is more like ‘ _green_ ’. The fact is, American secrets are for sale by an assortment of reputable vendors, myself included. If I don’t do this, someone else will. The man who’s paying me is called Wujing. Not _officially_ sanctioned by the Chinese, but _unofficially_ he’s contracted to take out rival agents—American, British. The message likely contains the name of another agent.”

“I’ve heard the stories about Wujing. He’s a myth,” Liz countered.

“That’s what they said about Deep Throat and the G-spot,” Reddington said conspiratorially, taking her arm and directing her toward the front of the store. Liz was glad he wasn’t facing her, because she was sure her professional mask slipped terribly. “I assure you Wujing is quite real, and he’s hired me. Now you have the chance to catch him. I’ve already forwarded them your cover.”

Liz blanched. “I’m sorry, what? What cover?”

Reddington explained briefly, steamrolling over Liz’s protests about betraying the life of an American agent. “And the best part is, he isn’t even in China. He’s right here in your own backyard.” He turned to look back at the man behind the counter. “Roderick, I changed my mind. I’ll take both.”

…:::…

During the briefing at the Post Office about the proposed mission, Ressler spoke up several times, voicing his reticence about moving on Reddington’s intel. “And besides,” he finally said. “Keen is not prepared to do this. She’s never been undercover before—“

“I’m sorry, but I’m standing _right here_ , and can speak for myself,” Liz interrupted, bristling. “Not to mention the fact that Reddington insists on my involvement. He’s already sent them a cover that’s linked to my face. This won’t work if anyone else shows up.”

Ressler shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. He’s asking you to spy on a notorious spy killer while pretending to be an expert in cryptography, which you know nothing about.”

Liz nodded. “He’s testing me. You want him to keep talking to me? I need to pass this test.”

…:::…

Wujing’s operation was run out of an old building that housed a radio station just five miles from the Post Office. Meera briefed Liz on the tech she’d need to decode the message the Chinese were looking for, as well as how to get the message out—all she’d need was a satellite connection. If she didn’t have that, a remote mirroring program could be used to allow a tech on the outside to have control of the system. Last but not least, they tagged her with a plastic polymer tracking device that looked like a nicotine patch applied high on her left shoulder, just under the neckline of her shirt, and sent her on her way. Reddington assured the team he could talk his way out of anything, in case his tracking chip became an issue.

Sure enough, when he and Liz were scanned with a wand, he gave a laugh and said, “DARPA tracking chip, 8mm tag. I was taken by Somali pirates last March; spent three weeks in a shipping container. The first two were a nightmare. The third was actually quite pleasant. Even so, that won’t happen again.” When the security guard hesitated, Reddington offered, “If you have a clean razor blade and some morphine, I’ll remove it.” The security guard assured him that wasn’t necessary, and Liz again felt a swell of admiration for the man who could so smoothly lie his way out of anything. She wondered idly what he’d lied to her about so far.

Halfway through the long elevator ride to Wujing’s base of operations, Reddington and Liz realized why no one was worried about the chip. “How far down do you think we’re going?” Liz asked quietly.

“Far enough,” Reddington replied disconcertedly.

When the elevator finally stopped moving, Wujing met them at the door and ushered them inside, greeting Reddington with, “My friend…”

“Don’t be cheeky, Wujing, you don’t have any friends,” Reddington replied before motioning to Liz. “My associate, Ms. Givins.”

Liz attempted to give her complete attention to Wujing as he greeted her as well, but she couldn’t help but notice that Reddington stared blatantly when Wujing took her hand in both of his and stood a little bit closer than she would have liked.

“You’ve made some changes,” Reddington said, looking around the bunker.

“We had to increase security,” Wujing agreed.

“I can imagine—four American agents killed in the past year and a half. You’ve been busy. I presume nothing gets in or out, no radio or satellite transmissions?” Reddington didn’t look in Liz’s direction, but she appreciated that he had her back, confirming for her that she’d need to use the remote mirroring program Meera had given her as a Plan B.

Liz took a few moments to set up her equipment, trying to find a way to plug in the remote mirroring device. Reddington approached and stood at her shoulder, his arm casually over the back of her chair, and asked, “Are we ready yet?”

Liz replied, “Almost,” while typing ‘NO SATELLITE SIGNAL’.

Reddington bobbed his head, looking up at Wujing’s senior cryptographer. “Do you get home much, Jin Sun?”

“Not for two years,” the man replied, shaking his head regretfully.

“Oh, that must be hard. It certainly would be for me. I don’t even have a phone. I insist on delivering all of my messages in person,” Reddington said, smoothing his thumb along Liz’s shoulder blade, a signal that he was talking to her, and not Jin Sun. Liz understood, and typed her reply, ‘NO TIME TO DELIVER IN PERSON. AGENT WILL BE KILLED.’

“What province are you from?” Reddington continued, easily making small talk.

“From Yunnan.”

“Oh, beautiful part of the country. I spent a month in silent meditation at a monastery just outside of Kunming.”

‘MUST ACCESS JIN’S COMPUTER. SUGGESTIONS?’

“It was a wonderful escape from the distractions of everyday life. I can’t imagine the distractions one might encounter down here.” Again he swiped comfortingly with his thumb along her back. “Can you?” he asked, leaning down toward Liz.

Liz arranged her face into a careful, barely annoyed, mostly bored expression, and she didn’t look at Reddington while she replied, “No. I can’t,” while typing, ‘YES. DISTRACT THEM.’

“Excellent,” Reddington said, walking away from where Liz sat. “I think we’re almost ready.” He stopped in front of a bank of monitors showing the street above. “This should be fun,” he muttered under his breath. “What the hell is that?” he said suddenly, raising his voice. “I swear, if I run into the same trouble I had with you in Hong Kong… In all the years you and I have known each other, I’ve _never_ put you in a position like this. You _know_ how I conduct my business. I don’t need this kind of crap. You _assured_ me this place was secure.”

“It is,” Wujing responded, indignant and confused.

Liz moved toward Jin Sun's computer, slowly, as the men in the room converged on Reddington’s position, all eyes on him or the monitors.

“Then what the hell is that?!” Reddington cried, flinging an angry arm in the direction of the video feed that showed the surveillance vans outside. “That van. It was there when we arrived, and it’s still there. That’s the FBI. With all the scans and wands and this elevator you’ve built that goes down to Middle Earth, and you don’t even bother to sweep the street around your building? This is nonsense.”

“Calm down, old friend—“ Wujing started.

“You’re under surveillance!” Reddington continued without pause.

Wujing’s patience began to wear thin. “If the FBI was outside, it’s because _you_ led them here.”

Reddington stared at Wujing with intensity, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and controlled. “I’ve been moving comfortably though the world for the past twenty years without a trace, and now some two-bit spy killer is going to put my life and business in jeopardy?”

Liz, having placed the device where she needed it to be, had retreated back to her laptop, and was marveling at the way Reddington’s low whisper could instill more fear and respect than the way he’d been shouting just a second before. She made a mental note to avoid having him _ever_ use that tone of voice with her if it could possibly be helped.

On the monitor, the men near the van began to pack up their gear, and the vehicle pulled away from the curb.

“There. You see?” Wujing said. “Nothing. Now can we continue?”

“If you’re through putting Ms. Givins and I at risk—“

“Reddington—“ Wujing said warningly.

“—it’s frankly unprofessional—“

“Enough!” Wujing barked.

Reddington stopped and raised his hands as if in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I’ve had a rough day.” He looked at Liz where she’d returned to her seat, then back at Wujing. “Shall we do this?”

Liz started the mirroring program, and soon the message was decoded, and the target’s name appeared on the screen. She mentally crossed her fingers that Ressler and the rest of the team were already working on securing his safety.

Wujing handed an envelope to Reddington, thanking him for his help. Reddington pocketed the envelope and turned to Liz. “Get your things. It’s time to go.” As he passed her, she cut her eyes down to the remote mirroring device still in Jin Sun’s computer. “Leave it,” he murmured as he brushed past her.

Alarms began to chime just as Reddington and Liz made it to the elevator. “Stop!” Wujing called after them. He walked after them, shaking his head regretfully. “You were right. Maybe that _was_ the FBI outside. In fact, maybe they’re not just outside. Maybe they’re right here in this room.”

Reddington turned around and glared across the room at Wujing. “Think hard before you accuse anybody of anything,” he said in the same threateningly quiet voice as earlier.

“A few minutes ago, contact was made from this room to an FBI server. A message I worked so hard to intercept was sent to the Americans. Well, all my instincts said it was _her_ , and I trust my instincts. You’re smart. The one responsible was smart, but our systems are smarter. Any contact with a government server is flagged for review, so… I know who betrayed us.”

Liz took a deep breath, her heart pounding. She opened her mouth to speak—how could she take this all on her and spin it so Reddington would come out of this clean and unharmed?—but before she could, Wujing whirled on Jin Sun and slammed his fist viciously into the other man’s nose.

As Wujing continued to beat his cryptographer, the members of his security team holding the man down as he protested his innocence, Liz took a step forward. Reddington grabbed her arm and pulled her harshly back to his side. “ _Be quiet_ ,” he ordered under his breath.

Jin Sun’s head was slammed back against his work station and ground into the desk next to his laptop as Wujing shouted at him in Mandarin. When the bleeding man’s head was finally released, he looked up at Liz and Reddington, a betrayed look on his face. One shaking hand moved forward and brushed over the remote mirroring device, still plugged into the side of his computer.

Liz felt her stomach drop and looked sideways at Reddington. She noticed his tell—a small twitch under his left eye—just before he grabbed a gun from the nearest security guard, shoving him to the side. Reddington swung the weapon forward and shot Jin Sun three times in the chest without hesitation. He immediately flipped the gun around and offered it, grip first, to the guard he’d taken it from.

“As entertaining as all this has been, we really do need to leave now,” Reddington said in a bored tone. “The next sound you hear is going to be the FBI knocking on your door, and I, for one, am not going to be here.”

Wujing drew his own weapon and pointed it squarely at Reddington’s chest. “You kill one of my people? I should kill _you_.”

Liz immediately stepped in front of Reddington. “The moment he sent that message, he became worthless to you,” she said evenly. “You would have beaten him for another twenty minutes and then killed him yourself.”

“You’re a cryptographer, a contractor—why do you care what happens to him?” Wujing asked, not lowering his gun.

“He pays me to decode things; he also pays me to stand in front of him when people start waving guns around,” Liz answered. “You hired us to do a job. It’s done. Now let’s get out of here.”

...:::…

Wujing offered to get them all out of the country, but Reddington politely declined, requesting they be dropped off along a city street instead to make their own arrangements.

As they stood on the sidewalk, watching Wujing’s black SUV turn the corner out of sight, Reddington spoke up. “I fear I’ve disappointed you. The deal was for us to actually _catch_ the criminals on the Blacklist, and now Wujing is as good as halfway to Beijing.”

“I don’t think so,” Liz said, a smile tugging at her lips.

Reddington looked at her quizzically, and she reached up, stretching the neckline of her shirt so far that her entire bare shoulder was revealed. Reddington noted the lack of a nicotine patch and raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side. “Nicely done, Agent Keen.”

Liz released her shirt and looked back at Reddington as Dembe pulled up in a dark sedan, and Luli got out to open the door for them. “Liz…” she offered again.

When they reached Reddington’s hotel, Luli and Dembe exited the car and took up positions nearby, leaving Liz and Reddington alone in the backseat.

“Luli can stay with me. Dembe will take you anywhere you need to go,” Reddington said in a low voice.

“Thank you,” Liz said. She waited for Reddington to exit the car, but he made no move to reach for his door handle. Liz suddenly wondered if _she_ was expected to be the one to leave.

Reddington finally broke the silence. “I don’t pay you to stand in front of me.”

Liz swallowed. Yeah, she had figured she was going to have to answer a few questions about that. She sighed, and said, “Red… I believe I will always do whatever I feel I have to do to keep you alive.”

“Are you this… protective… of all your criminal informants?” he asked after a beat.

Liz looked up and met his gaze. “No.”

“Have we met before?” Reddington narrowed his eyes at Liz, searching her face as if trying to recognize her all over again.

Liz ached to explain. “I wish the answer was as simple as the question seems.”

“I understand you requested this. To be the one I talk to. Why?” Reddington raised his eyebrows. “Why involve yourself in this? You’re married, you have a life, people who care about you.”

“And now I also have you,” Liz replied simply.

…:::…

Ressler gave a quick knock before letting himself into Cooper’s office, a report in hand. “You were right,” he said, handing the file to the director. “Keen’s hiding something. I put a flag on her. Any tests, reports, or files—anything she requests gets sent to us first. She brought a bullet and shell casing into Ballistics. At her level, the results were classified, but that’s the full report.”

Cooper scanned the report. “This isn’t just classified. Any briefings on this homicide include the Secretary of Homeland Security. Who else knows about this?”

…:::…

Exhausted by the events of the day, and frustrated by the classified results she’d received on the ballistics report, Liz had to plaster a fake smile on her face and take a deep breath before opening the door to her apartment. By the looks of the crowd of people visible in the front window, apparently they were having a party.

While she appreciated their friends coming together to support Tom, Liz felt very far away from everyone there. None of them knew she’d watched a man get beaten and shot earlier that day. None of them knew what she’d found under her floor boards.

And none of them knew about Raymond Reddington.

…:::…

TBC.


	6. The Stewmaker

*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This one was really hard! I knew what I wanted to have happen in a general way during the course of this episode, but damn if the PTB didn't mess with timelines when they created StewGirl, and I didn't want to end up in the same trap, so I had to sit and flesh out who the hell she was, and how she'd fit into my story, and who knew about her, and HOW THE FUCK OLD SHE WAS. Because those sorts of things are important.

…:::…

Chapter 6: The Stewmaker

…:::…

Despite the redacted ballistics report, Liz was determined to continue investigating the contents of Tom’s Box (even in the continued absence of proof that he was the one that put it there, Liz found herself referring to it as his). Heading in to work early, she stopped by the evidence archives, and despite her not being cleared to be there, and before she was chased out by security, she managed to eke out a phrase—‘Angel Station’—and a date: June 23rd, 2012.

…:::…

“Good morning, Agent Keen. I’ve just been reading about your prior achievements,” Reddington said as Liz joined him on a park bench in the sun. “Very impressive.” He folded the newspaper he’d been studying and placed it nonchalantly between them, an article detailing the Hector Lorca case facing Liz. She gave a small, proud smile. He was looking in to her past. Learning about her. This was good. This was… progress.

“And it looks like we both have a very busy day ahead,” he continued. “You’re due in court in three hours, and I’m due… elsewhere,” he finished vaguely. “But I thought I should do you the professional courtesy of letting you know that Lorca reached out to me. It seems like your case is about to go sideways.”

Liz frowned. “Why? What happened?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t bother you or the team with someone this petty—he’s a vicious little drug-lord thug—certainly nothing about him that warrants inclusion on the Blacklist. But since it concerns _you_ … I thought I’d pass the information along.”

“What’s he asking for?”

“Transportation out of the country, new identity, passport, bank account, credit cards, as well as the proper introductions to reestablish his operations elsewhere. And he wants it by tomorrow night. For whatever reason, Lorca is under the impression he's about to be a free man. I wanted to let you know I’m working on his request.”

“What? Why?” Liz asked with a small flare of anger. “You know I worked on this; you know we’re trying to put him away.”

“Because I’m a criminal, and that’s why I’m enjoying this arrangement with you and your team right now. The minute I cease to be a criminal, the minute I cease to move in the circles that provide the information you want from me… that’s when your bosses tear up that immunity deal I so carefully crafted, and I disappear into a dark government hole, never to be heard from again.”

Liz sighed in frustration. Of course he had to keep doing this. She knew that. “Can’t you just act like a criminal on other agent’s cases? Not mine?” Her voice had a pleading note to it, but she shot Reddington a resigned smile to let him know she understood.

Reddington stood, laying his folded jacket smoothly over one arm. “I’d wish you luck, and tell you to have a good day in court, Agent Keen, but it looks like that’s no longer in the cards.” Reddington touched the brim of his hat in farewell, and strode off down the path.

“Liz…!” she called after him, half-heartedly reminding him of her first name.

…:::….

As predicted, Liz’s day in court went badly.

Standing in the parking lot of a shady motel that night, red and blue lights flashing around her as techs and agents swarmed back and forth, Liz felt a rush of anticipation when her phone vibrated and she noted the number.

“You were right,” she said as she answered.

“Of course I was. What happened?” Reddington asked.

“My witness is gone,” Liz told him. “Whoever took him, we tracked them to a motel. Desk clerk said the man who checked in had a large black duffel bag. I’m there now, we’re going over everything, but there’s not much to find. A few fibers of hair on the bedspread, not human, we think it’s canine. The clerk said the man checked in with a dog. But that’s it. No latent prints, no evidence that anyone’s been in this room _. Ever_. Which—it’s a _motel_ —this place should be a petri dish, and there’s _nothing_. But we did find traces of adhesive on the walls; we think he used tarps or plastic sheeting, and wiped the place clean afterwards. And the bathroom…”

“What about the bathroom?” Reddington prompted.

“It smells terrible. Like a… strong chemical… I know this might sound crazy, but… I’ve heard—well, nothing much more than ghost stories, but—stories about a man who disposes of bodies this way…?”

“And suddenly your case interests me,” Reddington said. “I agree, it seems the Stewmaker is in town. This is a true Blacklister, Agent Keen, and he’s not just a ghost story. He’s the only fellow to engage when one has a particular sort of disposal problem. He’s a chemical expert who turns his victims into chemical stew, thus the _nom de guerre_. No DNA. No nothing. He makes corporeal problems literally disappear. But it’s much more than the proficiency of his tradecraft that gets him on the list. He’s a…” Reddington trailed off, and shifted in his seat. “…trophy collector. He takes… remembrances of his victims. _Memori morti._ “ Reddington cleared his throat. “He’s the key to closing hundreds of unsolved murders and disappearances.”

“And you can help us take him down?” Liz asked.

“I suggest you encourage Mr. Lorca to share some information. If he doesn’t have his name, he at least knows how to make contact.”

…:::…

Despite Meera’s more than intimidating demeanor and the charges brought against him for money-laundering, Lorca refused to discuss the Stewmaker.

As Liz led him to the helipad, she made one last play for the name. “Once I turn you over to Homeland, it’s beyond my ability to help you!” she yelled over the noise of the approaching helicopter.

“You’ve helped me enough, Agent Keen,” Lorca said sarcastically. “You disrupted my business. My life. You’ve embarrassed me, my family. You think you know me, with your profiles? You have no idea.”

The confident smile he gave her made Liz suddenly regret not requesting additional back-up.

A minute later, as she lay on the pavement, having been flung backwards when the helicopter exploded, her ears ringing and her head spinning, she decided additional back-up _really_ would have been the way to go.

…:::…

Ressler wanted nothing more than to deck Raymond Reddington as he stood there, completely calm. Number four on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, un-restrained, in the middle of a government black site. Basically a free man, able to leave at any time.

He really wished he’d been successful in Brussels.

“What did you know about the transport attack?” Ressler demanded. “How did he know where to strike? I swear to God, if you had anything to do with—“

“What you’re forgetting is that our desires are well-aligned today, for once, Agent Ressler.” Reddington watched the surveillance footage from the airport as it played on the screens above them. “And I have a way to fix this for both of us. I have a contract with Lorca to personally hand him a new identity.”

“That’s never gonna happen,” Ressler spat.

“Your witness is dead, you lost Lorca, and he took Agent Keen. I’d say my meeting with Lorca might be the equivalent of you falling on your ass and landing in a pile of Christmas.”

“We’ll need time to set up a sting,” Ressler began.

“Sure. I have all the time in the world. _You_ however… I’m sure another opportunity will present itself for me in terms of the Stewmaker. But _you’re_ working against the clock. If we do this, we do it _my_ way, no surveillance, no wires, or you can find what’s left of Agent Keen yourselves.” Reddington took Cooper and Ressler’s silence as a form of agreement. To solidify his argument, Reddington added, “I meet with Lorca alone. When confronting complex equations, the simplest solution is most often the correct one. I want the Stewmaker, you want your pet profiler back. You lost the trail. I can find it again. It’s that simple.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ressler demanded, his hands on his hips.

“Good. It’ll give me a one-on-one chance to repay you for the fun we had in Brussels.” Reddington turned to walk away. “Lorca will have questions about you,” he tossed over his shoulder as an after-thought. “You’ll need breviloquent answers.”

…:::…

Reddington was mostly pleased to see Ressler rise to the occasion and smoothly rattle off a believable cover story for himself.

If he was going to be honest, he’d have to admit he wouldn’t have minded Lorca’s men roughing the young agent up just a bit more before things settled down. Reddington really was still holding a grudge about Brussels.

After hashing out the terms of their arrangement—information on the Stewmaker’s whereabouts in exchange for the travel documents requested—Lorca raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully insistent on that agent’s safety being part of the deal. You seem to have a problem with me disposing of this bitch. She took everything I have—this should be the price she pays.”

“See, that’s the problem right there. You let your emotions get the best of you, which is how people wind up in jail, Hector. _Stupid_ people. I need the name and location of the man holding Elizabeth Keen.”

“Are you sure it’s not you who’s acting on emotion? This sounds personal,” Lorca pointed out.

Reddington gave a laugh. “You got me. It _is_ personal _. I want the Stewmaker._ Agent Ressler here is the one who wants the woman back, though I don’t know why—she sounds generally difficult, and I’ve seen pictures—“ Reddington shrugged. “I suppose she’d be pretty enough…” he mumbled, looking back at Ressler, “…if she could just sort out her hair…”

Ressler rolled his eyes. “Point is, I save her, I look good with my bosses, I get to keep doing what I’m doing and providing assholes like you with envelopes like _this_.” Ressler held up the folder with Lorca’s new identity in it.

Lorca sighed, and motioned for Ressler to hand over the documents.

…:::…

Reddington immediately dropped Ressler off back at the Post Office, and Dembe began driving to Maryland. They both had the name, Stanley Kornish, but Reddington was confident that he could track the man down first, as long as he wasn’t hampered by the FBI. Remembering the dog hairs from the motel, Reddington asked Dembe to dial the Maryland State Office of Animal Control, and within ten minutes, they had a location.

“Pull in the next time you see a shop, Dembe. We’re going to need meat.”

…:::…

Liz had been trying to form a connection with the Stewmaker since he’d hauled her from the trunk of his car. Giving him her name, detailing the people in her life who loved her and would miss her. She’d brought up the name “Stewmaker” in an attempt to align herself with him, compliment him and make it seem like she was on his side, while the rest of the world—the world that called him by that disparaging, disrespectful name—was the enemy. Not her.

While he set up his tools and she alternately stroked his ego and probed him for information, Liz was able to free her hands from the zip tie at her back. She was sure her skin would be raw around her wrists for days if she was actually able to escape, but… Free hands were definitely Step One. She made no large movements, and maintained her position, not giving away the fact that she’d made progress. The next obstacle was the large metal restraint around her right ankle, and the length of chain that tethered her to the wall on her left. She knew there was a key to open it, but she’d been blindfolded when it was applied, and she had no idea where Kornish had put the damn thing. She’d been scanning the shelves to her left unobtrusively, but couldn’t see it anywhere. There were bottles, and jars, and what looked to be a large, leather-bound album—Slides? Photos?—

The large grey dog that had been sitting quietly on a pile of blankets by the door got up and lumbered over to where she sat, sniffing at her hands. Kornish turned to look when he heard the distinctive jingle of the dog’s collar and tags.

“Hey, you don’t have to watch this. Go on,” Kornish said kindly to the dog, who made no move to leave. “Come on, let’s get your dinner, and you can play outside while I finish this up.” Kornish left what he was doing, apologized to Liz for the delay, and walked the dog out the door, locking it behind him.

Liz was out of the wheelchair where he’d placed her in an instant, and moved over to the bench and shelves, her tethered leg barely allowing her to reach. She glanced at the surfaces, looking for a key, but saw none. She opened several boxes and drawers, and slammed them shut in frustration. Pushing a box back into place, the leather-bound album toppled over and opened.

Hundreds of photos, sometimes stuffed one behind the other, filled the pages. Liz was momentarily distracted, and flipped several pages, horrified by the sheer volume of lives this man had taken.

She froze when one particular picture—of a girl about 18 years old—caught her eye. Labeled ‘91’, with no other markings. She grabbed it out of its place and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, shoving a loose photo into its place so an empty slot wouldn’t be noticed. She replaced the album, and moved to the other side of the room, unable to stretch far enough to reach the cold, flat metal bench that held Kornish’s tools. Liz strained, reaching, but the tips of her fingers fell several inches short of the nearest sharp instrument she wished she could defend herself with.

Figuring broken glass was better than nothing, she turned back toward the bench with the jars and glasses and came face to face with Kornish.

A sharp backhand that she didn’t see coming left her sprawling on the floor. Without a word, he lifted her back into the wheelchair, placed zip ties individually on each of her wrists, securing them to the arms of the wheelchair, and before the cobwebs had cleared, she felt the burn of an injection pierce her skin.

“What did you give me?” she asked weakly.

“A sedative. It’ll eventually cause paralysis, yet maintain your sensitivity to pain. I’ve been asked to make you suffer,” Kornish explained gently, but without sympathy.

Kornish went back to arranging his instruments as Liz felt the heavy effects of the drugs take effect. She slumped sideways in the wheelchair, and her eyes lost focus. She found herself wishing the rest of her senses would dull, but apparently that was the whole point. She could still feel, and she could still hear.

She wished she could hear his voice. Just one more time.

Her eyes heavy-lidded—almost closed—and her head lolled to the side, Liz thought she must be hallucinating when she saw a man’s shape appear behind Kornish and swing something heavy at the back of his head. Through her hazy vision, she wasn’t sure who it was at first, but the close-cropped hair and blue jacket…

Her heart leapt. She was going to be okay. Not only had she been saved— _she was going to be okay_ —but _he_ was the one that—

Her elation and relief were quickly tempered as she watched Reddington’s shape move to the wall of human trophies and glance over them quickly, scanning for something in particular. When he found the album, he began flipping through it purposefully. After a long moment, rechecking several pages, he closed the album firmly, with a muttered, “ _Damn._ ”

Turning back to Liz, he made his way over to her. She wanted to jump up out of the chair, she wanted to scream at him, she wanted to be able to give him _some sign_ —even if she could just _blink_ —

Reddington moved to Liz’s side and pressed two fingers to the pulse in her neck. It was steady, and strong. He could see her chest rising and falling gently, shallowly, but the movement was there. He leaned down and scanned her face, but saw no movement or signs of awareness. Just as well. She shouldn’t be burdened with the knowledge of what he was about to do.

Liz wondered if she could cry while still under the effects of the drugs. He hadn’t come for her at all. He’d been so intent on the contents of that album that he’d looked for it first, before even checking to make sure she was still alive.

Liz wished she could dig her fingers into her scar. ‘ _No, this is good,’_ she thought. _‘This is a reminder. Raymond Reddington is not mine; he never was. And he never will be. He doesn’t *know* me… and it should stay that way.’_

From her slumped position in the wheelchair, Liz watched Reddington inject Kornish with the same cocktail she’d been given. He hauled Kornish up to a sitting position and arranged him at the end of the bathtub that held the chemical concoction initially mixed for her. Her heart pounding, she willed her hands to move, her mouth to work, her eyes to flutter. _Anything_.

When Kornish finally came around and became aware of his predicament, he took it surprisingly well. Liz’s eyes had begun to focus, and she could see the two men clearly, a mere fifteen feet in front of her.

“Stanley. Hello. My name is Raymond Reddington.” Liz saw a flash of recognition at the name cross Kornish’s face. The drugs hadn’t dulled his expression yet.

Reddington saw it, too. “Mmm.” He stepped back, tilting his head at Kornish, studying him. “Shall we get started?” He nodded, as if answering his own question. After a long pause, he began, “A farmer comes home one day to find that everything that gives meaning to his life is gone. Crops are burned, animals slaughtered, bodies and broken pieces of his life strewn about. Everything that he loved, taken from him.”

Liz felt sick. She knew Reddington was talking about himself, and despite her earlier wish to hear his voice just one more time, listening to it now—so heavy and deep with loss and regret—she wished she could turn away, block him out, _stop_ him.

Reddington continued, looming over Kornish’s slumped frame. “One can only imagine the pit of despair, the hours of job-like lamentations, the burden of existence. He makes a promise to himself in those dark hours. A life's work erupts from his... knotted mind. Years go by. His suffering becomes... complicated.”

The fact that he didn’t believe any of this story would be remembered by anyone—the fact that he felt like these words were only being spoken in front of a dead man and an unaware girl—made the confession even worse.

He wouldn’t be saying these things if he thought she could hear him.

What would he say if he knew she understood his references? That she was brutally aware of his ‘life’s work’ and ‘complicated’ suffering?

“One day he stops. The farmer, who... is no longer a farmer... sees the wreckage he's left in his wake. It is now he who burns. It is he who slaughters. And he knows, in his heart... he must pay. Doesn't he, Stanley?” Reddington advanced toward the other man. “I’m sure there are those who would say he might be able to change. Maybe he's not damaged beyond repair. Maybe he could make amends to all those that he's hurt so terribly.” Liz found the ability to blink, and squeezed her eyes shut. “Or maybe not,” Reddington added.

Liz’s eyes flew open at the sound of splashing and bubbling. Reddington took several quick steps back, careful not to let the concoction near him. His jaw clenched, and he grimaced, watching the bathtub for a moment before turning away toward Liz.

Seeing her eyes open and focused on him stopped him in his tracks.

“Agent Keen,” he said in a low voice. “How much of—“ He stopped, his jaw working soundlessly. “I should have turned the chair around,” he murmured to himself, gazing down at her with a look of regret and shame.

‘ _You shouldn’t have killed him,_ ’ Liz wanted to reply. She knew she was gaining some control over her expression again, and could only guess at the disappointment in it.

At that moment, Ressler and the rest of the team burst through the cabin door, and Reddington stepped to the side, placing his hands on the back of his head in a show of submission to the armed agents.

“Where’s Kornish?” Ressler demanded.

“We’ve had a little incident,” Reddington replied lightly. “And I believe Agent Keen needs medical attention.”

…:::…

Liz sat on the back step of the ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She watched as Reddington walked the length of the driveway toward her, the leather-bound album under his left arm. When he reached her, he held it out for her to take it. She did, placing it on the floor of the ambulance beside her.

“It’s horrifying, but at least you can give peace of mind and closure to some of the families.”

Liz shook her head, attempting to keep any trace of pity from her face. “I know what those pictures are. And I know they’re the reason you came out here today.”

Reddington straightened, his face a careful mask.

“Saving me…” Liz shrugged, her face contorting briefly before she got control of her urge to cry. “…that was just a side effect, wasn’t it? An… accident.” She gave him a sad smile. “The timing just happened to work out.”

“Agent Keen—“

“You call everyone else by their first name,” she interrupted. “Donald. Harold. Yet you continue to address me formally. Why?”

Reddington took a long moment to answer. “Because you asked me not to,” he finally responded, his voice quiet.

“You do it just to be contrary? Because you know I’d rather you call me something else?”

“I just murdered a man by tossing him into a chemical bath right in front of you. And you’re worried about what I call you?” Reddington asked, confusion hardening his tone.

Liz shook her head again. “I had no idea. I didn’t realize you’d become…”

“…such a monster?” Reddington supplied, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you knew, better than anyone, what I’m capable of.”

“You made a beeline for the trophies and that book as soon as Kornish was unconscious. You didn’t even check to see if I was still breathing.”

Reddington had the good sense to look contrite. Glancing down at the ground, he said, “I’m sorry you had to go through this today, I really am. And I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re making this all about _you_.” He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m not. I promise,” Liz assured him, her voice gaining some strength. “The truth is…for me? This has always been _all about you_.” She leaned to the side, reaching into her back pocket for the picture she’d taken from the album. She extended her hand, offering it to Reddington. “I think this is what you were looking for.” Reddington’s mouth opened as if to speak, looking down at the photograph. Liz didn’t give him the chance, and instead climbed into the body of the ambulance, pulling the doors shut behind her.

…:::…

TBC.


	7. The Courier

*My* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and some of the actual TEXT in this one isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This one, again, is mostly the beginning and the end. This is not an interesting Blacklister, IMO. Hang on, we're going to get more interesting in the next chapter. :)

…:::…

Chapter 7: The Courier

…:::…

Liz had made progress.

She was used to finding information others didn't want her to find. She'd resorted to some pretty decent lies and impressive misrepresentations of herself and who she might be associated with to put together the sum total of her knowledge about Reddington over the years.

She hadn't expected investigating her husband to be as difficult as it was turning out to be, though. It should have been easy. His name was Tom Keen. He was a fourth grade school teacher. He wore glasses.

Except the passports gave him several other names, she was pretty sure he was some kind of undercover operative implanted in her life, and the more she thought about it, his protestations that "my prescription is small—you just can't tell they're corrective—but don't keep them on too long or you'll get a headache" seemed to indicate he didn't even need the glasses.

The date--June 23rd 2012--had stuck in her mind, and while an internet search only taught her that the decathlon world record was broken that day at the United States Olympic trials, it took until the night after she'd been taken by Kornish to remember.

She'd snuck out of bed, opened her laptop, and clicked through her photos until she found what she was looking for. She and Tom had been in Boston that weekend. They'd created a small vacation around a job interview Tom had, and one of the beautiful old hotels in the area was named Angel Station. It was moments before she'd found articles about the murder that had occurred there that same weekend. The murder that had occurred during the hours she'd been alone, Tom having gone to the interview.

But what did this have to do with Reddington? What did it have to do with her? She knew the only reason she was a worthwhile target—the only value she had—was as a source of information about Reddington, or because of their past connection. If this wasn't some huge coincidence—which it likely wasn't—it meant Tom being in her life was a danger to Red.

Liz snuck back upstairs, shot a suspicious glare at the fake glasses on Tom's nightstand, and crawled into bed. It wouldn't do her any good to sleep on the couch and wake up with a sore neck.

She woke up the next morning to Tom kissing her stomach, lifting the edge of her shirt slowly. He was hovering over her, a smile playing across his lips. "Good morning…" he murmured against her skin.

Liz brushed him away uncomfortably. "Tom… I need to talk to you about something."

Tom's playful smile immediately disappeared, his eyes concerned. "Sure. What is it?"

"Remember when we went to Boston? You had that… job interview?"

Tom smiled again. "Of course," he said softly. "Best weekend ever, right?" He sighed, and pushed a strand of her hair off her forehead. "We should do that again. Just book something, and… just _go_."

"No, that's…" Liz pushed herself up in bed slightly. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. A man was shot and killed at that hotel. The weekend we were there."

"Okay…" Tom said slowly, confusion crossing his features. "So, what's the question?"

"Were you involved? In the murder?" Liz asked, her face tight.

Tom stared at her for a long moment before sighing and reaching for his glasses. She watched his hand pass them, move swiftly to open the drawer in his nightstand, and draw a gun, which he swung quickly to point at her chest. "I wish you hadn't asked me that," he said, his voice low and angry. "The people that I work for are very powerful, and now I'm going to have to tell them I didn't get the information they wanted—"

The gun went off, and Liz felt a heavy, sudden weight push into her chest.

"Rise and shine! The day is waiting!" Tom called cheerfully.

Liz started, waking up and opening her eyes to find Hudson had pounced happily on her chest, urged on by her husband, who was now flapping the covers, tickling her, and bouncing the bed as disruptively as possible.

Liz pushed him off of her with force, and slipped out of the bed to stand in the middle of the room, still trying to shake away the last vestiges of sleep.

"Hey—are you okay?" Tom asked, concerned at her reaction.

"Yeah…" Liz wiped at her face with one hand, and turned toward the bathroom, mumbling, "I was just having a nightmare…"

…:::…

"Here's the updated profile I prepared on Reddington," Liz said, walking up to Ressler's desk. She offered him the folder.

"You enjoying the opportunity to follow your childhood crush around and see how much of the stuff you've come up with over the years is correct?" Ressler asked, taking the file from Liz without looking up from what he was doing.

"I also prepared one on you, in case you're interested," Liz fired back. "'Uptight, fueled by an inner rage, capable of the occasional moment of tenderness which likely brings on the desire to stay up all night watching Asian porn.'"

"See, this is why I keep you around. You're always _spot on_ ," he said sarcastically.

"Uh huh. And I don't follow him around like a puppy," Liz said.

"You do," Ressler replied, looking up at her with a small measure of actual concern. "He's ruthless, and dangerous, and you need to remember that, otherwise you run the risk of him chewing you up and spitting you back out. If he doesn't just swallow you whole—"

"You really resent the fact that Reddington wants to work directly with me instead of you, don't you?"

Liz's cell phone buzzed, and she drew it out of her pocket.

"Speak of the devil…" Ressler said.

" _He's not the devil_ —" Liz hissed as she answered the call.

…:::…

"What am I doing in Baltimore?" Liz asked, approaching where Reddington sat on a low couch, surrounded by books and tchotchkes. "What is this place?"

"Something of a hideaway," Reddington answered. "Belonged to a strange little man, prolific writer… I bought the place for him when he could no longer afford to keep it himself, and sadly he died without ever being published, but this place is chock-full his work… manuscripts, poems, unsent letters… and lots and lots of this…" Reddington raised a mason jar with a cloudy liquid in it to his lips and took a sip, hissing and baring his teeth slightly after swallowing, as if it burned.

"What is that?" Liz asked, somewhat horrified.

"No earthly idea. Some sort of distilled alcohol, I think. There's bottles of the stuff stashed everywhere. Would you like me to pour you a few fingers…?" As Reddington leaned precariously, twisting to look for another glass, Liz got the sense he'd sampled a little too much of… whatever that was. And she didn't want to go _near_ it.

"No, thank you," Liz said, perching on the only other empty surface in the room: a small end table. "Red, why am I here?"

Reddington looked at her with what Liz thought was a flash of disappointment before he placed his drink on a short stack of papers and began to describe the man known as the Courier.

…:::…

"I did my job here, I gave you a Blacklister," Reddington insisted, standing in the Post Office later that day, watching as Ressler and Meera ineffectually questioned the man they'd chased down through a farmer's market.

"What was he supposed to be delivering?" Cooper demanded.

"I don't know, Harold." Reddington raised an eyebrow. "Might it be conceivable that your people actually missed something?"

"You're not telling us something," Cooper insisted.

"Let me put your mind at ease. I'm never telling you everything." Reddington rocked back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. Liz was amazed at how a man almost a full head shorter than the Assistant Director could look so imposing when staring the taller man down.

"He's got a knife wound in his chest; scars all over his body," Liz noted, watching the interrogation through the one-sided glass. "Do you know how he got them?" she asked Reddington.

He paused, and tilted his head, considering something. "That's interesting…" he said finally. "I always wondered if the stories were true. I think you may need to call a doctor."

...:::…

Liz hadn't protested when Ressler called the Courier a psychopath, but she'd spoken up when he'd likened him to Red. Her arguments fell on deaf ears, and she was sent out to Baltimore one again to see what other information she might be able to obtain from Reddington.

He was, once again, without a tie, in an open vest, and smelling like a distillery. Liz wondered what had him so rattled that he felt the need to be _this_ inebriated throughout the day. It really wasn't like him.

"—and he wrote to the editor of the Washington Post almost every day—"

Liz stepped to the side as Luli swept into the room with a tray of food and handed it to Reddington. Liz looked her up and down quickly: she was wearing extremely tight sleep shorts, a black tank, and had one of Reddington's dress shirts on over it all. Liz fought the urge to glare.

Reading from something he pulled from the top of a nearby pile, he chuckled, "Listen to this one: 'Dear Mr. Bradley, what's with all the rabbits—'" Liz snatched the papers away, needing his attention, and not in the mood to play, jealousy causing her patience to wear thin.

"I need to know what you're not telling me about the Courier. He's taken a boy, Seth, who only has a few hours to live if you don't _help us_."

"And what do I get in return?" Reddington's jovial demeanor slipped away so fast that Liz was slightly taken aback. He had definitely been drinking, but it didn't seem like he was as drunk as she'd initially supposed.

The immature part of Liz's brain wanted to begin listing all of the things she'd _already_ done for him over the years, but instead she just crossed her arms and nodded toward the door Luli had just disappeared through. "Something you need she's not already taking care of for you?" The implication was clear.

Reddington's eyes narrowed. He didn't contradict her, nor did he agree with her assumption. After a moment he demanded quietly, "Tell me what you've learned about your husband."

"Why? You seem to know more about him that I do. Tell me why you sent Zamani to kill him, and I'll tell you what I found in a box under my floor boards as I was cleaning his blood off the carpet," Liz said coldly.

"His other identities, most likely. Passports? Cash? Contact names, addresses. Probably a weapon." Reddington calmly listed off the contents of the boxes he kept similarly hidden in various safe houses around the world.

 _'It really wasn't fair,'_ she thought. In a perfect world, she could tell him what she knew, and he could do the same with her, and—

 _'And *what*, Liz?'_ she questioned herself miserably.

Liz sank into a chair across from Reddington. In a small voice, she admitted, "There was a gun. It's connected to an open homicide. Happened in Boston last year. I was there…with Tom. For the weekend. A Russian tourist, Victor Fokin, was murdered, but the details…" Liz swallowed. "They're classified."

Reddington nodded, watching her carefully. He seemed to come to the conclusion that her information was enough to warrant something in return. "The Courier has a taste for the poppy. I know someone who has his finger on the opium pulse; a friend. There's a good chance he could be helpful in locating the Courier's safe house."

Liz nodded, and stood. "Thank you."

"No, Agent Keen, thank _you_."

"For what?" she asked, tired, not bothering to correct him to 'Liz'.

"For being honest with me about your husband. You haven't told anyone else, have you?" Reddington asked. Liz shifted her weight uncomfortably and shook her head. "Not even Cooper?" Liz shook her head again. Reddington pursed his lips and frowned. "I recommend you keep it that way," he said finally.

…:::…

By the time they discovered who had hired the Courier, Seth had less than 10 hours of oxygen left.

"Laurence Dechambou, ex-French intelligence, makes a handsome living selling secrets of a technological nature, and runs a nightclub on the side," Reddington explained. "And if you really want her to talk, I should meet with her."

"Every time you 'meet', someone ends up dead," Cooper pointed out.

"We've gotten off to a rocky start," Reddington admitted.

"You've killed three people and arranged safe passage for a drug dealer to flee the country."

"That drug dealer insulted me, and I arranged for him to flee the country on _my_ jet." Reddington raised an eyebrow at Cooper, and his voice dropped. "Do you think his passage was actually _safe_?"

"So I should have said 'four people'?" Cooper asked, his expression making it obvious that he did not find this correction an improvement.

"I'm not perfect," Reddington said, shaking his head. His gaze skipped over to where Liz leaned against a desk, an unreadable look on his face. "Just ask Agent Keen; I think she can attest to that statement."

"I'll do it," Ressler said. "I can do this."

Reddington laughed, the strange look immediately erased. "Oh, Donald, you're going to _love_ Laurence's club. Last time I was there, we had a _great deal_ of fun, until she tried to strangle me with her stocking…" Reddington went on to describe the night in greater detail—including the exact location of a 'lovely little freckle' he'd been enamored with, which Liz found to be a completely unnecessary inclusion—finally advising Ressler that if the operation went south, he should just bend over any available piece of furniture and let her slap him on the ass. "She loves that," he added, smiling.

Liz trained her eyes on the floor and stayed silent.

As the unofficial briefing broke up, Liz's cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and inwardly cringed. The last thing she needed right now was to have to talk to the husband that she didn't trust, the hollow feeling still sitting painfully in her gut after Reddington's story of his last encounter with Dechambou.

"Tom, this isn't a good—"

"You need to come home." Tom's voice was tight and insistent. "Okay? I don't care what's going on at work. You and I need to _talk_."

"Something incredibly important's come up—"

"I don't care! You and I need to talk about something, and it's more important."

"I promise," Liz stressed, "we'll talk as long as you like, but later." She hung up, and stared down at her phone for a moment. The more she thought about Tom, the more her gut twisted. She just wished she could tell the difference between mistrusting her husband, and guilt over how often her mind strayed to Reddington, despite having no right to do so, and with no encouragement on his part. She was a married woman.

The question remained, though… who was she married to?

…:::…

Reddington, surprisingly, didn't say the actual words 'I told you so' when the team returned to the Post Office with a non-communicative Dechambou, an escaped Courier, and a continued lack of information regarding Seth's whereabouts. The sentiment, however, was clearly written all over his face.

"Let me talk to her," he suggested seriously when they brought Dechambou back into an interrogation room. "She may not know where Seth is now, but she knows where she dropped him off last night. Release her. Let her go."

"Not going to happen," Cooper replied quickly.

"You don't have time for this, Harold. Pick her up in a week, in a month. Right now, let her go. I'll make her talk."

"How?" Liz asked.

Reddington swung his gaze to her, and the curious look passed over his face again. "I get the feeling you don't want me to answer that," he said, his voice deep and quiet. Liz couldn't decide if he was referring to her discomfort with the use of force against the woman because of her association with law enforcement, or whether he was starting to realize—

"Okay, release her," Cooper said. "But if you screw me on this…"

"I'll consider it a bonus," Reddington said, a grin popping easily back onto his face.

…:::…

Reddington arrived back at the Post Office with enough information to dispatch Meera and Ressler in pursuit of the Courier, and after looking earnestly at topographical maps of the area, hunched closely over a desk with Liz, they had a decent idea where to find Seth.

A small amount of Liz's recent disappointment in Reddington lifted. He was working quickly, the jokes had stopped, and he wasn't smiling anymore. While the boy only had forty minutes of air left, Liz felt like she could suddenly breathe more easily as she stood, shoulder-to-shoulder with Red as he stabbed a finger at the most probable location on the map spread in front of them. He was still a good man. Or at least a part of him… was still the good man she knew him to be.

"With Dembe driving, we might just make it," he muttered, sweeping the map under one arm, and guiding Liz to precede him out the door with a gentle push to the small of her back.

She'd think about that later.

…:::…

He'd gotten down in the dirt next to her, in his six thousand dollar suit. Reddington, Dembe, and Liz, all kneeling, scratching at the dirt frantically. Reddington had been the one to wrench open the refrigerator door when they found the handle, and he leaned over to yank the boy upright so Dembe could get his arms behind him to lift.

He was still a good man, no matter how many jokes he made about how the boy might be able to express his gratitude for them saving his life.

…:::…

His jokes, of course, gave Liz the idea. She stopped by the boy's room at the hospital, explained the need for secrecy, and made a single request. He'd pulled out his laptop immediately, and within minutes she had the entire unredacted file from the 2012 shooting at the Angel Station Hotel in Boston.

The man leaving the scene of the crime looked like Tom.

 _Was_ Tom.

The thought of going home left Liz feeling nauseated, and she found herself pointing her car in the direction of a funny little home in Baltimore instead, full of manuscripts and—hopefully—an international criminal and FBI informant.

When she got there, she walked slowly into the room, hugging the far wall. Reddington was seated on the couch, another glass of the cloudy liquid in one hand, light streaming in over his face.

She _so very much_ didn't want to go home to her husband.

"You look upset," Reddington noted, glancing up at her. He licked his lips and raised an eyebrow. "You've looked upset through this entire case, in fact."

"Circumstances are… far more complex than I originally thought," Liz allowed. "Work… Tom…" She shook her head, willing herself not to cry. "I found…" She trailed off, and started again, a tear slipping down one cheek. "I don't know who else to talk to."

Reddington looked down at his glass, and back up at Liz, stretching his hand toward her, offering the drink. Leaving the comfortable distance she'd maintained against the far wall, she walked toward the man on the couch, and reached out to take the mason jar from him. His eyes locked on her face, and he kept his grip tight around the glass for a moment longer, their fingers brushing against each other. Liz swallowed, her gaze on their hands. Finally he let go, and leaned back into the couch. Liz took a seat next to him, a large pile of papers and books between them.

"There's a photograph… I think Tom was the shooter at the hotel in Boston," Liz said quietly.

Reddington looked up sharply at Liz. “What hotel?”

“The Angel Station…” A look of recognition passed over his face, and Liz was quick to catch it. “Red… what else do you know about my husband?” she implored.

Reddington shook his head and turned away, looking out the window. “Funny… all these manuscripts, and my favorite thing about this place is still the view from the sofa.” He lifted on hand to gesture, not looking back at her. “I love how the light breaks through the trees.”

"You won't answer my questions about him, will you?" she asked, grateful he wasn't looking at her. She hated that she couldn't keep the silent tears from falling, now that they'd started.

"When are you going to tell me how you know so much about me, Agent Keen?" he countered, not unkindly.

Taking a sip from the terrible liquid in the glass she'd be given, she murmured, "Liz," and settled back into the sofa, resigning herself to silence.

For now.

…:::…

TBC.


	8. Gina Zanetakos

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and a lot of the actual DIALOGUE in this one isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This one got away from me. It's pretty long. But this episode was so heavy with backstory and mythology and INTRIGUE! :D

…:::…

Chapter 8: Gina Zanetakos

...:::...

_Previously..._

_"There's a photograph… I think Tom was the shooter at a hotel in Boston last year," Liz said quietly, joining Reddington on the sofa, a large pile of papers and books between them._

_Reddington looked up sharply at Liz. "What hotel?"_

_"The Angel Station…" A look of recognition passed over his face, and Liz was quick to catch it. "Red… what else do you know about my husband?" she implored._

…:::…

When Liz finally made it home, she found Tom sitting at the dining table, the open box in front of him. The gun, passports, and piles of cash were organized next to it. Liz stopped short when she rounded the corner and saw him, but quickly pushed forward again, dropping her keys loudly on an end table.

Tom had heard her come in the front door, and when her keys clattered on the wood surface, he finally turned to look at her, his eyes haunted and betrayed, and more than a little angry. "You wanna tell me what this is?" he asked, his voice low.

"Something of yours I found while I was cleaning up your blood. Something I was hoping _you_ could explain to _me_ ," Liz replied evenly.

"Liz, that was weeks ago. If you want me to believe _you_ didn't put this in our floor, then you're telling me you've _known_ about this, and haven't told me? Haven't asked me about it? I mean, what did you think, that—that—" Tom stuttered, reaching forward to pick up a stack of money. "—that I just squirreled away all this money—there's a fortune here, Liz—and passports, and a _gun_? A _gun_ , Liz? Why would I have this?"

"Is this you?" Liz asked evenly, picking up a passport and holding it up, a photo of Tom, without glasses, next to the name Anton Pierre Louis.

"What, are you interrogating me now?" he asked, his voice dropping.

"And this," Liz said, setting down the passport and pulling a picture of Tom leaving the Angel Station Hotel from the file in her bag. "Is this you, too? This is a picture of you at the Angel Station Hotel in Boston."

"Yeah, so what?" Tom asked, his voice calm.

"There was a murder there that matches this gun, an agent named Victor Fokin, a Russian agent who was in the process of defecting when he was killed before he could say anything," Liz said in a rush, trying to control her anger.

Tom had an answer for everything, and if he was lying, he was a _very_ good liar. Liz knew she was good at her job; she was good at interrogations and interviews, she was good at spotting tells and half-truths. As she and Tom fought, she couldn't spot anything in his facial expression that gave him away. If her husband wasn't who she thought he was… he was an incredible undercover operative. She mentally snarled at the small part of her brain that was momentarily impressed.

"Okay," Tom said finally. "Okay, if you think I'm guilty, then why don't you do something about it? Call the FBI. Do it. Go ahead." Tom picked up the phone and handed it to Liz challengingly. "You think I'm kidding?"

Liz weighed her options, the phone heavy in her hand. If she did nothing, and Tom was just her husband, a normal guy, with a normal past, and a normal job, then she'd always wonder. She needed proof. If he was who he said he was, then the FBI going over his life with a fine tooth comb would be able to set her mind at ease. If he wasn't… she had to turn him over to her team.

If he was anything more interesting than an elementary school teacher, that meant he was in her life because of her job, and most likely because of her connection to Reddington.

She dialed the number of the switchboard quickly, and gave her identification code.

…:::…

Tom looked appropriately taken aback when the agent put the black bag over his head, and similarly off-balance when it was removed once they'd arrived in the parking garage at the black site.

Liz fell into step next to him as they got on the elevator. She steadfastly refused to answer his whispered questions.

When they arrived on the main floor of the Post Office, Liz split from Tom's side, walking toward Cooper without having to be asked. As Meera extended a hand to guide Tom away from Liz, he looked at her imploringly, calling quickly, "Wait—"

"Just tell the truth, Tom," Liz said, interrupting him with an unreadable expression on her face.

Liz turned back to Cooper and followed him into his office. She sat across from him and waited patiently.

"When this all started," Cooper began, "when Reddington turned himself in and you asked to work with him, I was somewhat skeptical. Suspicious. You've built your career and usefulness here on being the foremost authority on Raymond Reddington, but I don't know why. There are other criminals you could have concentrated on, or at least spread your focus. But you've always been very single-minded."

"I've worked on any case ever assigned to me, and if I may say so, sir, I've done a very good job—"

"You have. I'm not disputing that," Cooper allowed. "You've done good work." He sighed. "But now this. Your white whale waltzes in one day and turns himself in, allowing you access to him. And then you call us with suspicions about your husband…? I need you to help me understand what's going on here."

"The gun, the money, and passports were in my house. A hatch in the floor. The gun was used in an unsolved homicide; I pulled the ballistics report," Liz explained.

"I know. Agent Ressler and I have been quietly watching your actions since you and Reddington started working together," Cooper revealed. Liz swallowed. She thought she'd covered her tracks better than that.

"Tom is my _husband_ ," she said, leaning forward. "But I brought him here, to you, for help, for answers. If we can—"

" _You're_ not going to do anything," Cooper interrupted. "Until this matter is resolved, I'm putting you on leave."

 _'No,'_ thought Liz frantically. If she was denied access, she'd never find out what Tom was hiding—they'd seal things up, classify it, and most definitely block her from working with Reddington. Her gut twisted as she thought of never seeing him again. "But sir—"

"Agent Keen… go home."

On her way out the door, she slipped her cell phone from her pocket and dialed. "Hi, I need to meet with you. I have a favor to ask."

…:::…

The fact that Reddington had agreed so readily to meet her made her feel slightly better. They sat, facing opposite directions on a park bench near the White House. Red tried to begin the conversation with politics and cynicism, but Liz interrupted him. "I'm here to talk about Tom."

"You're here because you need me to walk in to Cooper's office and request to work with you again."

Liz looked down at her hands. "I need to have access. I need to know what happens to Tom. I need to know if he's…" She shook her head. "If he's working for someone, if a third party is responsible for inserting him into my life, I need to know." Barely turning her head, she cut her eyes sideways at Reddington. "And I want to know what _you_ know."

"People think it matter who occupies that house," Reddington said, inclining his head slightly toward 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. "It doesn't. Multinational corporations and criminals run the world. You've obviously heard of corporate espionage, companies trying to beat each other to be the first hand on the dollar. But what if it were taken a few steps further?" Reddington posited, not acknowledging Liz.

"Red—"

He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "There are certain deliberate and malevolent actions taken by corporations to protect their vital interests. And one of the often-used instruments in recent years is a corporate terrorist named Gina Zanetakos."

"What does this have to do with me?" Liz asked impatiently.

"If you want to find out the truth about your husband, you need to find Gina."

"What?" she asked, surprised. "Why? Does she know Tom?" Liz pushed.

"Because she's Tom's lover."

Liz stayed silent, digesting the information for a moment. "Why are you helping me?" she asked in a low voice.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Agent Keen?" Red tilted his head to one side, raising an eyebrow.

"You want something in return. I know you do. I'd like to know what that is," Liz lifted her chin defiantly.

Reddington pursed his lips. "You want to know what I know. _I_ want to know what _you_ know. For the time being, I think we both want to continue working together. Am I right?" Reddington took Liz's silence as a yes. "Good," he said, nodding.

…:::…

Reddington left the park and went directly to the black site. Standing in Cooper's office, he shook his head and rolled his eyes, playing up his displeasure at this inconvenience. "I fail to see how suspicions about her husband affect our arrangement."

"Agent Ressler is perfectly capable of—"

"Agent _Ressler_ is perfectly capable of _nothing_ when it comes to me, Harold; I thought I made myself clear that I want nothing to do with him. Bring back Agent Keen. I'll speak to _her_." Reddington played with the brim of his hat, and moved toward one of the vacant chairs in the room.

"Agent Keen is on leave."

Reddington sat, crossing his legs nonchalantly. "Well, then, lives will be lost." He went on to paint a dire picture of potential acts of terrorism on US soil, and offered to deliver the person who would be responsible.

"You turned yourself in, Reddington. You were the one who proposed our little arrangement. Delivering criminals to me is your job."

"My job is my business, Harold," he replied, his voice deep, and a secretive smile playing across his mouth. "Delivering criminals to you is a hobby, a diversion. One that may become tiresome… especially if you refuse to bring back Agent Keen." With that, he stood and left the office without a backward glance.

…:::…

Meera had questioned Tom for hours by the time she finally gave him a break, excusing herself to report in with Cooper. "He claims to have been there on a job interview, gave me the name of the school and his contact, the headmaster. Mentioned several other details, things we can verify. He's been quick to volunteer information."

"Okay, Cooper said, turning to Ressler. "And where are we on the contents of the box?"

"Still working on the passports and money. Ballistics did confirm that it was the gun used to kill Victor Fokin. There was also a partial on one of the casing in the magazine. No hits on it through AFIS."

"Give me updates as soon as you have them." Cooper stopped walking, and the two other agents slowed to a stop beside him. "In the meantime, Reddington's brought us a case."

Ressler nodded, his hands on his hips. "About time he realizes he has to talk directly to us."

Cooper glanced at Ressler. "You're the one who called Keen in on this."

"Yeah, but look at the mess she's made of things so far. Her husband is being investigated for _murder_ right now—surely you don't—"

"He's requested her again," Cooper interrupted with a finality in his tone that made it clear the discussion was over.

…:::…

Liz had breathed an audible sigh of relief when she hung up the phone after Cooper had called her back in. She'd driven directly back to work, and launched into a quick history lesson on Gina Zanetakos for the team. She explained that nearly a year ago she'd reached out to Reddington, hoping he could broker a deal to assassinate a Supreme Court judge who was the swing vote on a case that could have cost her corporate clients billions.

She didn't need to remind everyone in the room that no Supreme Court justice had died in the last twelve months. She didn't have the details about why he'd turned down the job, but she was privately pleased. That wasn't something she could imagine him being involved in. Despite his more recent track record for violence, she guessed the job offer last year had been what earned Gina a spot on Reddington's blacklist.

…:::…

Liz had called Reddington immediately when Ressler made the connection to a dirty bomb based on Aram's findings from Gina's cell phone.

"Hey—you can't just run off to this guy every time we get a lead!" Ressler shouted after her as Liz made her way toward the elevator. "We need to work on this here!"

" _You_ work on it here, Ressler, I'll work on it with _him_. I'll call you with any additional information," Liz said as the elevator doors slid closed.

She met with Reddington in a park, strolling comfortably beside him as she explained their theory that the dirty bomb was scheduled to be detonated at four in the afternoon somewhere in the central time zone of the US.

"Have you found the connection to your husband?" Reddington asked nonchalantly.

Liz sighed. "We looked through all of Zanetakos' phone messages, all her records. There wasn't a single message from Tom." She stopped walking, and he passed, turning to face her. "I know I said I'd always believe you… but… are you _sure_ there's something between them?"

"Has he been giving satisfactory answers to Agent Malik's questions so far?"

Liz licked her lips and shifted her weight. "No. He says he was at the hotel in Boston meeting with the headmaster of a private school." She looked up and met Reddington's eyes. "The headmaster denies the meeting, has never heard the name 'Tom Keen', and Tom didn't recognize a picture of the man when it was put in front of him."

Reddington nodded. "So you still think he was involved in the murder at that hotel?"

"I actually found something else," Liz admitted, looking away across the park. "The picture of Tom… leaving the Angel Station Hotel." Liz bit her lip. "I think Zanetakos is in the picture, too."

Reddington tilted his head, interested, and waited for Liz to continue.

"Different hair, dark glasses, but I think it's her." She paused, and then went on hurriedly, "I mean, she's not looking at Tom, he's not looking at her, they're walking in opposite directions, but…"

"That puts them together."

"Or that gives us a different suspect for the murder. A known terrorist and assassin," Liz was quick to point out.

"If that's the case, and Gina Zanetakos was the one to kill the Russian defector, why was your husband there? You know he didn't have a real interview. And how did the weapon used in the crime end up under your floor boards? Why would someone be framing _your_ husband, Agent Keen?" Reddington took a step closer to Liz, dropping his voice as he looked down into her eyes, searching. "What's so special about _you_ , hmm?"

Liz stood her ground for as long as she could, but she blinked first, taking a breath and stepping back from Reddington. He'd made a habit of invading her personal space on a handful of occasions prior to this, but this time was… deliberate. And overt.

Almost like he was trying to distract her from something.

"I'll call you with anything else," she mumbled.

…:::…

That call happened sooner than either of them expected.

"Meet me back at the park?" she asked, her voice small.

They sat this time, rather than walking. He'd gotten to the park first, and she found him sitting alone at the gazebo he'd offered as their rendezvous point. She joined him, sitting next to him on the steps. She didn't try to hide the fact that she was sitting with him, the way they'd always done before, sitting at opposite ends of a bench, or seated facing opposite directions. She sat next to him, and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, mimicking his position.

"We found a picture of Tom in her apartment." Liz found herself running through all the details, her voice even and unemotional. "And a box… passports, weapons, money. Same as the box from _my_ house. It even had the same symbol carved on the lid. I think Tom and Gina work for the same people. And even though he says he doesn't know her… he clearly does."

Reddington stayed silent.

"There was a picture of the murdered FSB agent in the box, as well. I don't know which of them actually did it, but I think they were both there that day for the same job." Liz turned to look at Reddington. "Do you know who they work for?" she asked, a pleading note slipping into her voice, which she mentally cursed herself for being unable to control.

"I might," Reddington answered after a moment.

"Would you tell me?"

"Not yet."

Liz sighed in frustration. "So much is happening, and I just don't know how to—" She broke off, and rephrased. "It's not like I wouldn't be able to handle it if Tom turned out to be… I don't know; whatever we think he is right now. But… the questions, the _not-knowing_ … I feel like I'm drowning, and I'd _really_ appreciate it if you could just give me _something_ —I know you don't know me, and you think you don't owe me anything, but—"

"Trust and honesty don't come easily in my profession, Agent Keen," he interrupted.

Liz watched his face for a long moment as he stared out across the grass in front of them. "You can trust me," she said finally, her voice steady.

…:::…

"Your husband may have been connected to our primary suspect," Cooper said angrily, pacing in his office. "If I let you into the field and you discover some incriminating information on him, I have no reason to believe you won't suppress it. But circumstances require your continued involvement."

Liz stood facing Cooper, Ressler a few feet behind her. "You found something else?"

"Money Zanetakos wired to a dummy corp in Berlin, linked to a man named Maxwell Ruddiger, a bomb expert operating out of Europe."

"And you need _me_ because you need _Red_ to find this guy," Liz said, turning her head to look from Cooper to Ressler and back. Ressler didn't meet her eyes. "He's still requesting me?"

"We've tried multiple times in the last hour. He picked up the first few calls we made to him, but wouldn't answer any questions. Just kept asking for you," Ressler grumbled.

"Now he isn't even picking up the phone," Cooper added.

Liz got the feeling that this was the _'something'_ she'd asked for. She'd meant her somewhat desperate request in the gazebo in terms of information; he'd responded with an action. He was willing to fight to maintain her involvement on the case. Apparently he'd keep her in position, but wanted to see if she could get the information on her own.

Liz grudgingly admitted to herself that this seemed fair.

…:::…

Dembe escorted her into a back room in Reddington's current safe house. He was shouting into his phone, pacing the length of the room. "No, Hakim, _that is not the problem_. Listen to me. Shipping is my business. Once I receive payment, the merchandise ships. That's the deal. According to my man in Houston, the payment's not there. It's been diverted to New Orleans, which is _entirely unacceptable_." He stopped pacing to look at Liz and nod in acknowledgment of her presence before continuing, "Well I don't care if the wedding is Saturday. All I care about is my payment. Hakim? _This conversation is over_."

Reddington snapped his phone shut and lobbed it at Dembe, who caught it easily, and smoothly placed it in a jacket pocket.

"Agent Keen…" Reddington walked toward her with a smile. She noticed his voice changed immediately from the harsh, commanding tone he'd been using on his business call. The way he greeted her was kind, and welcoming. "What can I do for you?"

Liz fidgeted. He was in her personal space again. "Maxwell Ruddiger. He's the bomb maker. He gets me to Zanetakos, she gets me to Tom. Can you help me find him?"

…:::…

By the time Reddington had tracked down Ruddiger and leaned on him for the information regarding Zanetakos' whereabouts, they had nineteen hours left.

By the time they'd grabbed Zanetakos, they had considerably less.

"What was that?" Liz bellowed at Ressler as the medevac team wheeled the bleeding woman out of the public restroom on a gurney. "You told me not to kill her when we finally got our hands on her—like a woman would be so _blinded_ by jealousy that she'd forget we needed to _talk to her_ —and then _you're_ the one who shoots her! _Twice_!"

"She had one hand around your neck, Keen, and a knife in the other. Should I have let her kill you?"

"That woman is the link! She's the only one who knows where that bomb is!" Liz roared, advancing on Ressler, who gave Liz a strange look and backed up a few steps warily.

"She might also be the woman your husband is _cheating on you with_." Ressler narrowed his eyes. "And she's the only person who can exonerate him in the death of that Russian agent. You don't seem the least bit concerned about that part…?" he said suspiciously.

Liz lifted both hands, palms up, as if weighing options. She lifted her right hand, and said softly, "My husband might be a liar and a cheat, and yes, a murderer." She lifted her left hand. " _A dirty bomb might go off somewhere on US soil_ ," she said pointedly, her voice rising in volume again. "Which do you think I should prioritize right now?" she yelled, turning away and slamming a stall door loudly on her way towards the exit. "Quit trying to kill people we need to talk to, Ressler!" she shouted. Before she walked out through the door, she mumbled over her shoulder in an irritated voice, "This is just like Brussels all over again…" She turned to jab a finger at Ressler. "She _better_ make it."

…:::…

After regrouping at the Post Office and running through what they knew regarding the bomb, Zanatako's employers, the Hanar Group, and their financials and corporate interests, Liz interrupted Cooper. "Wait, what did you just say? Say that again."

"The Hanar Group. Their shipping division is doing terribly, and within the year they might have to shut down the port they operate in New Orleans.

"Shipping in New Orleans," Liz repeated. "Hang on, I might have something… let me make a call—!"

She strode quickly from Cooper's office, dialing Reddington as she went. He picked up just as she rounded the corner into a blissfully deserted hallway. "New Orleans," she said instead of greeting him. "What do you know about it?"

Reddington's suggestive chuckle on the other end of the line didn't improve her stress levels. "Quite a lot," he murmured, his voice low. "What do you have in mind…?"

"You were on the phone, earlier, someone was getting married, and you said something about shipping and a port in New Orleans," she said hurriedly.

"Yes." Reddington's answer was short, hearing the urgency in her voice.

"You told the man on the phone your payment was diverted. Why?"

"It happens every once in awhile, but this was unprecedented. An associate of mine in New Orleans was advising illicit traffic in the Gulf to be rerouted to New Orleans."

Liz swallowed. "The Hanar Group hired Zanetakos. They're a majority owner of a port in New Orleans. Where was your payment diverted from?"

"Houston," Reddington volunteered immediately.

"That's the target! New Orleans and Houston are the two biggest ports in the Gulf. If Houston were to close because of radioactive contamination, all traffic would be diverted to New Orleans, the Hanar Group's profits would soar—they'd be the only game in the Gulf—thank you—!" Liz hung up the phone, already running back down the hallway toward Cooper's office.

…:::…

After the bomb was successfully located and contained, Liz was—with great protest from both agents—allowed to accompany Meera and Ressler to the hospital to question Zanetakos, who came out of surgery with expectations of making a full recovery. Liz hung back in the room, while Meera offered her a plea deal in exchange for information.

"Your prints were found on a nine-millimeter used to assassinate Victor Fokin in Boston last June," Meera said. "Did you kill him?"

Zanetakos' eyes flicked over Liz where she stood near the door before answering. "Yes."

"Why?" Meera prompted.

"He was a Russian agent defecting to the US. Somebody didn't want him spilling secrets."

"What secrets?" Ressler chimed in.

"Fokin had information about the route Chechen guerillas were using to move their supplies to their soldiers on the Russian border." As Zanetakos spoke, Liz felt her stomach drop. She knew Red had several deals with Chechen guerillas in recent years. "The guy who hired me was making millions providing those supplies," Zanetakos continued. "His name is Raymond Reddington."

Ressler and Meera both immediately turned to look at Liz. Desperate to direct the topic away from Reddington, Liz pushed forward past the other agents. "Do you know Tom Keen?" she asked quickly, pulling the photograph from her jacket pocket. "We found this picture of him in your apartment."

Zanetakos looked Liz up and down for a moment, as if she was sizing her up. ' _Like a rival,'_ Liz thought bitterly.

"Never seen him before," Zanetakos replied, turning her head away and slipping down further in bed, signaling she was done answering questions.

…:::…

"We need to talk," Liz said, striding into the room and walking directly to Reddington. "Zanetakos confessed. She killed Fokin last year in Boston; her print was found on the gun. Tom's been released."

Reddington looked up from his chair. "You must be relieved," he said.

"Not remotely," Liz fired back immediately. "The box from my house? The passports? Forged. The money? Traced to an offshore account of _yours._ " Liz stopped talking, allowing Reddington a chance to speak up. He didn't take it. "Now, this _should_ mean one of two things. Either Tom is completely innocent, and you're trying to frame my husband, by planting _all_ of that evidence under my floorboards for me to find. Or… you've hired both Tom and Gina Zanetakos before, and provided them with those boxes. You had _her_ assassinate a Russian defector who could have caused trouble for your business with the Chechen rebels. A crime, incidentally, that you were surprised I thought Tom was responsible for when I told you my suspicions last week in your Baltimore safehouse."

Liz began to pace the length of the room.

"But why bother framing an innocent man if you were also going to send Zamani to kill him?" Reddington took a deep breath, as if to speak, but Liz held up a hand with an irritated glare. "I know you haven't admitted that, but I know it's true. I'm sure we'll end up discussing the entire thing sometime in the future, but for right now, let's put a pin in that one." Reddington raised an eyebrow and bobbed his head. Liz continued, "And you looked honestly shocked when I told you Zamani had come after Tom. I'm good at my job—I don't think you knew the details of the target you'd sent your man after that night. And you certainly didn't recognize me when I walked in to talk to you after you turned yourself in." Liz licked her lips, pausing in her pacing. "Did you?" she asked quietly, narrowing her eyes.

Reddington looked at her evenly, still silent. ' _No,'_ she thought. ' _He didn't. He still doesn't.'_

She resumed her trek across the room. "So I don't know how likely it is that you're responsible for hiring Zanetakos in the past, and then framing a man _you don't know_ with a gun she used in the job you'd hired her for, with some fabricated story about her being his lover, just to get under the skin of an FBI agent who you _also don't know_."

Liz gave a frustrated sigh, and sat down in a chair across from Reddington before she continued. "Or, option number two. You hired Tom, and inserted him into my life. But this raises all of the same questions. How could you have hired a man you don't know? I suppose, through an intermediary. But why me?"

Reddington gave her an unreadable smile. "Yes. Why you…"

"I also don't understand why you were willing to work with her, hire her for the Angel Station assassination, when she left such a bad taste in your mouth after the Supreme Court job offer you turned down? That's why you sent us after her, right? Not just because you're using the FBI to clean up your network of previous employees?" Liz found herself desperate for confirmation on any of her theories. She waited for a long moment before speaking up again. "This is the point where you talk," she said, a hard edge to her voice. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, and looked at him earnestly. "Even if you'd hired both Tom and Gina, at separate times, why would she have his picture? Why would her print be on the gun in _his_ box?" Liz shook her head and leaned back into the chair, realizing she would get nothing from Reddington tonight. He was playing things entirely too close to the vest these days. "You didn't know anything about Tom when you turned yourself in to the FBI. But I'm betting you've been doing some digging, ever since you found out who it was that Zamani ended up stabbing that night. And now you _do_ know. You didn't know the name 'Tom Keen' two months ago, but suddenly this week you know who he's cheating on me with." Liz raised her eyebrows. "Red… what do you know about my husband?"

Red tilted his head to one side. "You don't believe he's innocent. Even though the FBI has cleared and released him."

"No," Liz answered.

"Have you told him that?"

"I haven't been home yet. I came here to talk to you first."

"But you plan on going home? On keeping up what is essentially a charade at this point?" Reddington's voice was curious.

Liz shrugged. "I still have questions. About him. About you. But you know what they say…" She gave a grim smile. "Keep your friends close…?"

…:::…

I know, this is really a bit more of a departure from canon!Liz, but I'm just going to run with it and see how far it'll take me. :)


	9. General Ludd/Frederick Barnes

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and a lot of the actual DIALOGUE in this one isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Combo episode! I didn't really respond to Frederick Barnes, so the Red/Liz interactions from that one got shuffled into General Ludd. Let me know how it worked out, okay?

 **Accompanying art work:** There's a point in this chapter where Liz's childhood artwork is mentioned. Didou27 (the amazing writer who is currently thrilling us all with her AU fic Dream Walker) is also a truly fabulous artist. She was sweet enough to supply two 'childhood' drawings for me for this chapter, and wait til you see the GORGEOUS piece she did that goes along with the next chapter (Anslo Garrick). It'll blow your mind. :) **Check out the link in my profile to see the art!** And Didou27, thank you, thank you, thank you! You're a goddess. :)

…:::…

Chapter 9: General Ludd/Frederick Barnes

...:::...

Liz had been considering her next move in terms of her husband when she heard the rustle of the shower curtain, and Tom eased in behind her, snaking his hands around her waist. She gritted her teeth and patted one of his hands in what she hoped passed for an affectionate way. "I'm just finishing up in here, babe. And I'm running late as it is today..." She stepped from the shower and grabbed her towel, leaving the bathroom quickly in order to stave off any further attempts at conversation.

As she poured her cup of coffee, idly scrolling through her emails on her phone, she came across one in particular that gave her pause. She replaced the coffee pot and promptly forgot about the cup she'd poured for herself. The email was from a real estate contact.

Tom walked into the kitchen, crossed over to her, and frowned when she ducked away from his attempted embrace, still reading her email intently. He sighed in frustration. "Is this for me?" he asked, irritated, gesturing to the cup of coffee.

"Sure, go ahead," Liz said absently, her eyes still on her phone.

"Liz, you need to talk to me," Tom implored. "I was _cleared_. Ever since that mess with the FBI and the shooting in Boston, you've been—"

Liz's phone began to vibrate in her hands. Tom glared at it.

"No, Liz, we need to have a _discussion_ , work can wait—" Tom said, waving a sharp hand dismissively at her phone as she accepted the call.

"It's my _dad_ ," she said, her tone making it obvious that she wasn't about to argue on this point. She held the phone to her ear. "Hey. Is everything okay?"

"What, I can't call my daughter unless there's something wrong?"

"How are you feeling?" Liz pressed. She hadn't called him in days—weeks?—and she wished fervently that Tom wasn't standing in the kitchen with her. She wanted to update him on her progress.

"Like the picture of health."

"Something's wrong," Liz said immediately.

"Remind me why I supported your decision to go into psychology?"

"Because you didn't want a daughter who sold pot on a street corner," Liz said, her lips quirking up in a half smile.

"I don't remember those being the only two options available for you in terms of career choice?" Sam replied.

Liz's smile widened and she leaned against the kitchen counter. "Seriously, Dad. Tell me what's wrong."

"Oh, nothing, just this twelve year old who claims to be an oncologist wants to run another series of tests."

"You're in the hospital?" Liz stood up a bit straighter. She should have called him more regularly. "I'm coming."

"No, you're not. It's just... I haven't been feeling great, so I'm getting checked out again."

Liz could hear the lie in his voice. "You promise this is under control? If this is serious, I want to be there."

"Listen, Butterball, I know how much everything at work means to you right now. I've got teams of medical people. Their teams have teams."

Liz sighed. "Don't say that just because you don't want to bother me, okay? You're my dad. You're allowed to bother me. But… you're going to be fine, Daddy, I know it."

Sam chuckled softly. "I love you, Butterball."

"I love you, too. Can I call you again tonight? Tomorrow? We haven't… _really_ talked in _so long_. I want to give you updates..." Liz looked sideways at Tom, who was busy putting two pieces of bread in the toaster. "...on my life," she added.

"Sure. We'll talk again soon."

Liz hung up, made a quick excuse to Tom about being _even later_ now, and ran out the door.

...:::...

As soon as she had a semi-private moment, Liz called the number she'd been given. Dembe answered. "He's not available right now—" he began.

"That's okay," Liz replied quickly. "Is Luli there?"

When the other woman reached the phone, Liz had her take down a residential address outside the city. "It's just gone on the market. Red will want to know."

"Why this place?" Luli asked, using her free hand to pull up the listing on the laptop in front of her. "He goes to Marigot, Florence, Doha, the Seychelles..."

"He's going to want to buy it."

" _This_ house?" Luli's voice was unimpressed and skeptical on the other end of the line.

"If he doesn't buy it, he'll at least want to know it's for sale," Liz insisted.

"Why would he be interested in this house?"

Liz waited a beat before she answered. "He raised his family there."

Luli was silent for a long moment. "Must hold a lot of memories for him...?"

"Oh, I'm sure he spends every day trying to forget what happened there."

"...and yet you think he'll want to know it's for sale?"

Liz took a deep breath and nodded, even though the other woman couldn't see her through the phone. "Just pull the Realtor paperwork and make sure he sees it? You don't even have to tell him the information was from me."

...:::...

Cooper started the day by briefing Liz and Red on a plane crash, and demanding Reddington's help bringing those responsible to justice. Reddington dug his heels in, bargaining for access to the FBI's ViCAP system in exchange for information on General Ludd.

"Absolutely not," Cooper snapped. "I'm not giving you that kind of access!"

"Then you'll just have to find another criminal to talk to Agent Keen and make fun of Agent Ressler," Reddington replied quickly. Liz worked hard to keep her face neutral. He still had her marked as his only FBI contact.

"I have no interest in cases I have no interest in," he was saying, as Liz realized she hadn't been paying attention. "I'm not your consultant. I bring cases to _you_ , not the other way around. You're asking me to go beyond the terms of our original agreement, Harold. If you want me to help you with this case, I'm going to need something to sweeten the deal. Rest assured; granting me access to ViCAP will benefit _you_ just as much as it does _me_."

"And you think you can ID one of these guys?" Cooper said, nodding toward the computer screen on his desk which showed a still from the video claiming credit for taking down the plane.

"Give me a few hours to get to Cuba and I guarantee you, you _won't_ be disappointed by the intel."

…:::…

"You should come, Agent Keen," Reddington said, falling in step with Liz as she left Cooper's office. "You know, I was thinking back to that dinner we almost had in Montreal, and what you told me just before I had to... make my exit," Reddington said, following her down the stairs. He dropped his voice so he couldn't be overheard. "You intimated that most things people think they know about you are, in fact, lies."

Liz clenched her teeth, her heart beating faster, and she sped up, causing him to hurry to keep pace with her. She wasn't comfortable with him bringing that up _anywhere near_ her colleagues, no matter _how_ low he dropped his voice.

"I can't go to Cuba with you, Red." She got on the elevator and waited for him to follow behind her before she pushed the button for another floor. "I need to stay here and work the case. And besides," she said, shooting him an apologetic look over her shoulder, "all my tropical wear is in the wash." The thought of accompanying Reddington on his private jet to Cuba... She shook her head slightly, trying to clear the sudden and horrifically strong desire to take him up on his offer. She'd gone back to playing house with Tom, trying to pick up on anything else about him without him suspecting she was suspicious. It was at best dull, and at worst nerve-wracking and nauseating.

She wanted to go sit on a beach somewhere with Reddington.

Why had she just turned him down—?

"You'd look positively _radiant_ in a guayabera dress; I know a little shop in town—we can stop before the flight."

Liz stood her ground, locking her knees, willing herself not to turn around to look at him. If she turned around she'd say yes. She kept her eyes trained on the elevator doors as they continued their slow ascent.

He thought she'd look radiant...?

She didn't even know what a guayabera dress _was_. She'd have to look it up later and try not to think too much about why he might want to see her in one.

This line of thinking was _not_ helping her resolve.

"No? Fine. But just know you're missing out," Reddington said, interrupting the silence as the elevator door slid open. He brushed past her and strode toward where Dembe waited with the car, not glancing back over his shoulder.

…:::…

Reddington slid into the backseat next to Luli. "What did you find out?" he asked, nodding his chin toward the folder in her hands.

Luli smiled. "I looked into the house. She was right. It just went on the market."

Reddington took the file offered to him and opened it, looking at the contents with a Mona Lisa smile playing across his face. "Is it really for sale?" he asked softly.

"I take that to mean you'd like me to move forward with the purchase?"

"And _Agent Keen_ called you with this?" Red confirmed, slightly suspicious.

"Mmm hmm," Luli said, nodding.

"Interesting," he murmured.

…:::…

Hours later, Red dialed Liz's number. She answered immediately. "Red. What do you need?" she asked, bracing herself on the dashboard of the car as Ressler swerved haphazardly through traffic.

"A bottle of beer and a pork sandwich. What do _you_ need?"

"How about the location on any of the members of General Ludd? Nathaniel Wolff? Roger Gard? Arthur Denning? Anybody?" Liz said, the day's frustrations evident in her tone.

"Funny you should request that, Agent Keen, because I just so happen to have the location of all three men, considering they're _all the same man_. Got a pen?"

"…You're not kidding," Liz said, sitting up straighter. Ressler glanced sideways at her, quizzically. "How did you find this out?"

"Why do you think I went to Cuba? Now, shall I pass this piece of information on to you? Or just say to-hell-with-it, and go in search of my beer and sandwich?"

"You went all the way to Cuba. On your own dime. To get us the group founder's aliases and location?" Liz asked, amazed.

"I went all the way to Cuba to get _you_ this information, Elizabeth."

"El—?" Liz cut herself off immediately. He did this for _her_? And 'Elizabeth' wasn't 'Liz', but it was a start. She wished she could have this conversation without Ressler sitting next to her—wanting privacy for phone conversations seemed to be becoming a theme today, she thought—but unless she wanted to throw herself from a moving vehicle while on the Beltway, she'd have to make do. "Why for me?" she asked.

There was a slight pause before his voice came over the line again, deep and quiet. "I appreciate the information you passed to Luli. I wanted to... thank you."

Liz closed her eyes briefly. "You're welcome," she replied, hoping she'd kept her tone light enough that Ressler didn't pick up on how much this conversation suddenly meant to her. She'd waited a long time for him to thank her, and while his gratitude was in regards to something much less important, she'd take anything she could get from him. "And I don't like the name Elizabeth, actually. I feel like I'm in trouble with my dad when someone calls me that."

"Speaking of Sam, how _is_ your father?" Reddington's voice was serious.

"...why do you ask?" Liz heard the suspicion in her own voice.

"The cancer. It's come back? I hear he's back in the hospital." There was a pause, and Liz's heart started to hammer as she scrambled unsuccessfully for a reply. Reddington continued, "I'm actually surprised you aren't there with him. Are you planning on seeing him... anytime soon?"

"He's... I mean, it's not..." Liz stuttered. "Who the hell told you that?" she finally demanded harshly, off balance because of the abrupt change from one emotionally charged topic to another that was equally personal. She wasn't in a mood to finesse the conversation any more. How had they gone from his gratitude to her father's health?

"I understand that he's exhausted his options and that he's... not doing well. I'd like to offer my condolences."

Liz's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "You checked into my family."

"When did Sam adopt you, Agent Keen?" Reddington asked bluntly.

"I'm not having this conversation with you right now, Red."

"Why not?"

"Because you're in Cuba, I'm trying to catch a terrorist, my partner is in the car next to me right now, and discussing my father's health under these circumstances is frankly unprofessional. Call me when you get back and we can discuss things—like how you even know _any_ of this." Liz hung up, and gave a frustrated sigh.

"Your dad's sick?" Ressler asked, his tone somewhat softer than his usual brusque one in an attempt to be caring.

"That's what he said," Liz said vaguely.

"You think Reddington's just winding you up? Trying to mess with you? I mean, the man lies for a living. Think he could be using your dad to—?"

"I believe him," Liz interrupted with finality.

…:::…

The next day, after tracking down two additional aliases used by Wolff, Liz's phone vibrated in her pocket. Seeing Tom's name on the caller ID almost made her ignore the call, but she picked up, steeling herself for what she assumed would be a defensive conversation.

"Liz, your Aunt June called."

"I'm sorry, now's not a good time," Liz said before she processed what her husband had just said. "Aunt June? Is this about my dad's diagnosis?"

"She—wait, yeah, how did you know?" Tom asked.

Liz let out an anguished breath. She'd been hoping Red had lied to her. "The cancer's back?" Her voice was small and tired.

"Liz, I'm sorry… it's spread to his liver."

"I have to call him—"

"No, Liz, he's in surgery right now, but I have you booked on a flight tomorrow morning; you'll be in Nebraska by noon. I got an earlier flight; I'm leaving now."

Liz squeezed her eyes shut, cursing the confluence of events that had culminated in this situation. "Okay. Um… tell him I'll be there as soon as I can, okay? Tell him I love him."

"I will," Tom promised. "Be safe. I'll see you tomorrow."

…:::…

As soon as Liz got back to the Post Office, she strode into Cooper's office. "Sir? I have a family emergency. My father's sick. I need to catch a flight."

Cooper looked up from the files in front of him, pulling his glasses down off his nose. "Not an option."

"I know the timing is terrible—"

"All flights are grounded."

Liz paused a beat, trying to process what this meant for her plans to see her father. "What? Why?"

"General Ludd. He blew up the plane Ressler went to intercept before it left for Denver." When Liz's face blanched, he quickly added, "He wasn't on board, Agent Keen, don't worry. He's on his way back here now. But shortly after that, FBI headquarters received a manifesto. The F.A.A. has implemented 9/11 protocol. All planes are grounded until further notice."

…:::…

Sam woke up, sensing another presence in the stark, quiet hospital room. Tom sat in a chair by the window, watching the older man quietly. Sam sighed. "Is she here?" he asked.

Tom shook his head. "Not yet. But you know she's upset, Sam. Why didn't you let us know this was going on? Why didn't you tell her?"

Sam looked away, admonished. "How much does she know?" he asked quietly.

"Aunt June called."

"Great," he rasped. "That woman talks too much. So you both know..." Sam's words trailed off into a wracking cough.

"...everything," Tom supplied. "Six weeks, huh?" he added gently.

Sam nodded. "At best." He frowned, and cleared his throat. "You're going to have to take care of her. I've done my best since I got her... Now she's yours. Can you do that?"

"I can do that, of course I can do that," Tom said earnestly, leaning forward.

Sam gazed out the window past Tom, his eyes seeming unfocused. After a long moment of silence, he said, "I've been thinking about her... as a child. When I first got her. She was wild, unpredictable. Angry. But I could still tell there was a sweet girl in there. She was so volatile, growing up. Hard, then soft, then—" He smiled ruefully. "—immediately back to being hard again. It took me years to gain her trust."

"You might have lost some of that recently," Tom pointed out. "Seriously, Sam, why keep this a secret?"

Sam swallowed, and considered his words carefully. "She's at a very important point in her life. She's finally getting to do something she's been working toward for _years_... it seems like her whole life has been leading up to this stage of... her career. This is something important, and it'll keep going, even after I'm gone. My death is going to be a distraction; that's unavoidable. But the weeks and months leading up to it shouldn't have to be. If I could have scheduled this for a more convenient time, I would have," he joked, giving a sharp laugh which dissolved quickly into a coughing fit. Tom grabbed a glass of water from the table beside the bed and handed it to Sam, who took a sip and passed it back.

As he replaced it on the table, several drawings and pieces of paper caught Tom's eye. "What are these...?" he asked, picking them up.

"Art projects... drawings... Letters she wrote to me when she was young. A collection of things from over the years." The corners of Sam's mouth turned up, almost reluctantly. "Things that make me smile."

Tom flipped through the pile without asking permission. He paused on one particular drawing that was created with a childish but obviously talented hand. Eyes, along one edge of the paper, with long, light eyelashes. A few inches away was the face of a man, his eyes closed, in profile. Flipping through several more pictures of trees and fountains and birds, he found another drawing, obviously of the same man. This one was more complete, done at an older age. There were more details, and Liz's talent had obviously progressed. A few more letters and high school pictures, and a very complete portrait of the blonde man sat at the bottom of the pile. It was dated the same year Liz graduated from high school and left for college.

"Who is this?" Tom asked, his voice tight as he held up the drawing. "Family member?"

A flash of suspicion crossed Sam's face. "She's drawn him her whole life. Doodled him on scrap pieces of paper. I always figured he was probably someone she'd known before she came to live with me. Someone she just practiced her portrait skills by drawing over and over; improvement through repetition." He shrugged. "Imaginary friend? She may have just made him up."

"You never asked her?" Tom asked.

Sam shrugged again. " _You_ can ask her, if you want. Sounds like she doesn't draw him anymore...?"

"I've never seen her draw him, no," Tom said, replacing the artwork. After a beat, he looked at the man in the bed. "Sam, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me the truth. You don't have a lot of time left, and it would make my job substantially easier if you'd just give me the information without us having to dance around what we know—individually and collectively—about Liz. And Raymond Reddington."

Sam's jaw clenched. "Get out—" Sam snarled as he reached for his phone, which Tom snapped up, much faster than his father-in-law.

"Liz isn't just an expert on him _now_ , she's been drawing him for _years_ ," Tom said, pointing at the pile of drawings. "Since she was a child. Since she came to you."

Sam glared at Tom, who noticed the slight twitch of movement as the older man's hand eased closer to the nurse call button. Tom quickly removed that from Sam's reach as well.

"What were the circumstances? Who gave her to you? Why? How does she relate to Reddington?"

"If she hasn't already figured you out—and she probably has—she'll be on to you _very_ soon," Sam warned, his voice low and harsh. "Your best bet would be to pack up your little operation _right now_ and run. Very far, and very fast."

" _'Little operation'_?" Tom asked, a slight smile on his face. "Little? I married her. We're adopting a child. I've been in her life for _years_ now. ' _Little_ '?"

Sam shook his head. "She'll never go through with that. She'd never do that to a child, knowing what she does about you."

"Liz doesn't know _anything_. Your 'intelligent' daughter you're so proud of falls for everything I tell her. And I can read her like a book." Tom smiled. "She's mine. You _gave_ her to me... _til death do us part_."

Sam grabbed for the IV pole, swinging it toward Tom with more force and speed than he was expecting. Tom dodged it, deflecting the metal rod to the side. He grunted as it contacted his forearm. That was going to leave a mark.

Sam had leaned forward in his attempted attack, and Tom took the opportunity to snatch one of the pillows from behind him. He pushed the older man back with a strong hand on his shoulder, and shoved the pillow over his face. Sam thrashed, and fought, his arms clawing at Tom's shoulders, his legs kicking uselessly, tangled in the tightly made hospital sheets.

…It took substantially less time than Tom had predicted for Sam to stop bucking and fighting. Then again, his lungs _had_ seen better days.

After less than a minute, the movement stopped, and after waiting a minute more, Tom stood up, and replaced the pillow behind Sam's head. If only all of his jobs of this kind were weak cancer patients. Things would go a lot easier.

…:::…

Reddington arrived at the Post Office just in time to step off the elevator and see Liz raise one hand to her mouth, her cell phone clutched in the other. She'd moved alongside a staircase which afforded her a small amount of privacy, and when she sank silently to the ground, her back against the railing, the agents who remained busy with the recent apprehension of Nathaniel Wolff didn't notice her.

The nurse on the other end of the phone apologized again, and repeated her condolences before hanging up. Liz took a shuddering breath as her mind began to run her various escape routes—even if she couldn't get home to the Midwest, she at least had to get out of the noise and bustle and chaos of—

"Agent Keen?"

Reddington's quiet voice made Liz look up from her position on the cold concrete floor. " _Please_ go away—" she begged.

"I assume that was news about your father." His face was concerned, and kind. "May I fly you to Nebraska?" he offered softly.

"All planes are grounded," Liz replied, shaking her head. She wiped ineffectively at the tears on her cheeks, just to have them replaced immediately by fresh ones.

"Not mine."

…:::…

An hour later, Liz sat on board Reddington's jet, numbly looking out the window as they took off down the runway.

"And your husband? Will he be joining you at some point?" Reddington asked, breaking the silence that had stretched almost the entire ride to the airstrip. He noticed Liz hadn't mentioned Tom at all.

"He was on a flight earlier today. He already called. Because of the situation here… his plane got rerouted to Tulsa. He rented a car and is driving the rest of the way." She looked at her watch. "He's probably not even there yet." Liz felt her throat constrict, and her voice raised as traitorous tears began to fall again. "He was all alone..." she whispered. "I wasn't there when he..."

"It sounds like that was his choice," Reddington said softly. "He must have had a reason for not... involving you in—"

"I don't want to talk about this; I can't talk about this right now," Liz said miserably.

Reddington nodded. "I know it hurts, but my recommendation would be for you to do just that. The best way for you to keep the memory of your father alive is to talk about him. Tell me some stories."

Liz shot him a sorrowful, almost desperate look.

Reddington looked at her earnestly, standing up and moving to a seat immediately across from her. "Tell me your most vivid childhood memory about your father."

Liz took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. She searched for a memory to share. "Some parents try too hard to _manage_ their kids... He never did. He always seemed to know when I needed space. He encouraged me to be creative; he redirected some of my... less healthy interests and...obsessions. He was _absolutely unrelenting_ about getting me to speak English without an accent—" Liz cut herself off abruptly. She wanted _so badly_ to talk to Reddington— _really_ talk—especially now that she'd lost the only other confidant she had in the world.

Reddington studied Liz's face. "What accent were you trying to get rid of?"

Liz looked out the window at the ground, already far beneath them, and bit her lip before turning her eyes back to Reddington. "I tried to call you earlier this morning. You didn't pick up."

"I had… business to attend to."

Liz nodded. "I heard there was an explosion today at a house in the suburbs. It had just been purchased... I hope the new owner isn't too disappointed."

Reddington gave her a tired smile. "I'm sure whoever bought the property will come to terms with the fate of the house. Eventually."

"Did it help?" she asked, no longer bothering to be vague.

Reddington narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, pursing his lips as he considered the question. "I don't know if it _helped_ ," he admitted, "but it hurt substantially less than I thought it would."

Liz nodded. "Did you see it first?"

Reddington leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. "I remembered it being bigger, somehow."

"I'm sure it was lovely," Liz offered.

"It used to be," Reddington corrected.

"It's interesting how our memories of the past change over time, isn't it?" Liz asked, thinking how large a man she'd thought Sam was that first night she'd arrived on his doorstep. The last time she'd seen him he'd been too thin. She should have guessed something was wrong, even back then.

"Would it be easier for you if I disappeared for awhile?" Reddington asked. "I can cease to exist in sixty seconds. I offer that particular package to clients. Or I could talk to… well, I'd still refuse to have anything to do with Agent Ressler, but I don't mind Agent Malik. Or I suppose I could work directly with Cooper for a few days." Reddington studied Liz's face. "Give you some time." Liz didn't reply. "Say the word, and I'm gone."

Liz gave a sad smile. "Don't leave. You're the only thing in my life that I'm confident about right now. And if you're not at the Post Office when I get back from the funeral… I'll probably quit. There wouldn't be anything holding me to that job. Because for me… there's just no fun in it if you're not there, and if there's no fun to be had, I'm not interested."

Reddington tilted his head. "One of these days you're going to have to tell me what it is about me that has you so fascinated."

Liz nodded. "One of these days," she agreed quietly.

...:::...

Next up: Anslo Garrick. I have big plans. Let's see if they work out. :)

 **And seriously, go check out Liz's childhood drawings of Reddington!** Link is in my profile!


	10. Anslo Garrick Part 1

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and a lot of the actual DIALOGUE in this one isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: The ever-amazing Didou27 provided us with a STUNNING portrait that Liz draws during this episode. Check the link in my profile to see her gorgeous artwork! And thank you, darling! You’re a goddess. <3

…:::…

Chapter 10: Anslo Garrick Part 1 

…:::…

Liz hadn’t slept well in days. Tom had been playing the part of the dutiful husband perfectly, to the point that Liz had had moments of doubt that he was anything other than what he pretended to be. 

But she always came back to the box of money and passports, and Gina Zanetakos’ prints, and the fact that Reddington knew things about him that he refused to tell her.

That morning she’d made up her mind to corner him and get some answers out of him sometime soon, entering the Post Office a little late –everyone knew the circumstances, and no-one said anything about her arrival time. She got off the elevator to find Reddington in handcuffs, standing with Ressler, Meera, and Cooper, arguing about safety. 

“Why am I in handcuffs, Harold?” Reddington demanded. “You’re violating our arrangement.”

“There’s an imminent threat to your life,” Ressler answered. 

Reddington scoffed. “That condition is constant.”

Meera launched into a detailed explanation of her contacts and the intercepted communications that indicated Reddington was being targeted for assassination. 

“With all due respect, Agent Malik, if the intel were worth having, then I would have it,” Reddington interrupted, not looking at Liz as she arrived to stand next to him.

“There’s a price on your head,” Ressler said with vehemence. 

Reddington laughed. “There’s a _running_ price on my head, Agent Ressler! But just out of curiosity, what’s the number up to these days?”

“Anslo Garrick.” Cooper’s voice was steady and deep. 

Reddington’s smile tightened and dropped from his face, all joking gone. “Listen to me. If this intel was disseminated, it was done so directly to you. It’s canned, which means Anslo Garrick intends to attack _this_ facility. We’ve got a songbird in our midst, and until I find out who’s singing, I don’t trust _anyone_ , because someone helped to bring him here. I don’t need visas, passports, travel documents; I can’t be tracked, and I can’t be easily caught. Garrick knows this.”

Liz chimed in. “Reddington’s right. Garrick would have needed him contained, landlocked. This site and our security protocol is the perfect way to get _us_ to do half the work for him—bringing Reddington here so he would know exactly where to attack to get to him.” 

Ressler shook his head. “He doesn’t even know this place exists,” he argued.

The group was suddenly plunged into darkness, and emergency lighting flooded the room in beams of harsh light. Liz raised an eyebrow at Ressler. “Obviously he does.” 

“Garrick is a blunt-force object, Harold. And seemingly immune to bullets. I can attest to this first-hand, having put one in his head years ago at point blank range. He’s here, and he’s already in.” Reddington looked to Liz, counting on her to lend credibility to his statements.

Cooper also looked to Liz, and she had a momentary dizzying sensation as she realized both the Assistant Director of the task force and the FBI’s Most Wanted #4 were both looking to her to make a call. Liz looked back at Cooper, steadily, and nodded. 

Cooper grimaced. “Initiate full facility lockdown.”

As he barked orders and demanded non-essential personnel evacuate the building, Reddington turned his back to Ressler, motioning with his restrained hands as best he could. “Get me out of these damn cuffs.” 

Liz looked at Ressler. “We should put him in the box until the threat is neutralized.” Ressler nodded, already having come to that decision himself. He grabbed Reddington by one bicep and steered him off the main floor and down the hallway that led to the holding cell. Liz fell into step next to him.

“This is not a threat that can be _neutralized_ , Donald, tell your boss not to make a stand. Get your people the hell out of here. I don’t think you appreciate the sheer firepower that has entered this building. He means to take me, and he’ll kill anyone in his way or in his wake. This isn’t about digging in. This is about escape.” 

“Shut up,” Ressler said tightly, stepping forward to check around a corner before waving Liz and Red to follow him. Liz had taken Red’s arm, lightly, and while her position mirrored the way Ressler had been leading him a moment before, she was barely touching him now. If he had wanted to break away and run, or fight (as much as he could, in handcuffs), he easily could have. Yet he walked docilely along with Liz, allowing the pressure of her hand to speed him up or pause him when they came to corners.

Reddington stopped and tilted his head, looking at Ressler’s tense form with curiosity. “Why not just let them have me, Donald?” His voice was low, and while obviously still trying to be obnoxious and facetious, Liz could tell he was testing the words out as truth, readying himself in a way for the possibility that what he described might actually happen. Had a _very good_ chance of happening, actually. Reddington cut his eyes to Liz, since he was being summarily ignored by Ressler. “I’ll likely be tortured for weeks and left to rot until they finally deign to put a bullet in my skull.” 

Liz’s insides twisted painfully, horrified at the option, and panicked by the mental images that suddenly flooded her brain. She squeezed Reddington’s arm slightly, hoping he would take it as silent reassurance that she wouldn’t let that happen.

Reddington pursed his lips and looked back in Ressler’s direction. “That would probably please you, wouldn’t it?” 

Liz shook her head, answering for her partner. “You’re an adjunct informant for the FBI, Red. That means you’re our responsibility. That means we fight for your life against anyone who wants to take it,” she said fervently.

A loud bang echoed down the hallway, and the sound of bullets ricocheting off the pipes above them caused Liz to shove Red against the wall and down onto the floor, stepping in front of him and firing down the corridor in the direction of the vague outline by the stairs. She and Ressler managed to drop the form, and Liz spun to shoot a second man who came sideways at them through another door. 

Ressler gave an agonized cry and crumpled to the ground, clutching his left calf where the second man had managed to hit him before Liz dropped him. “Ressler?” she shouted, leveling her gun back down the hallway and checking to make sure no one else was there to surprise them again. “Where are you hit?”

“My leg—“ he groaned through gritted teeth. 

Reddington had moved over to where Ressler lay, and he grabbed the handcuff keys from the gasping man’s belt without hesitation. He quickly freed himself and went about stripping the dead gunman beside them of his gear.

“Can you move?” Liz asked quietly, kneeling beside Ressler. She quickly undid his tie and wound it around his calf, causing him to roar in pain. 

“I can’t walk, no,” he rasped.

Footsteps on the stairs could be heard, and before Liz could stand and spin toward whoever was approaching, Reddington had drawn a gun and shot out a pipe above them, causing steam to spill down and obscure the hallway. For good measure, he pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it toward the stairs. Liz and Red turned their backs, and all three hunched and squeezed their eyes shut against the noise and percussive force that shook the corridor. 

“Come on,” Liz said, grabbing Ressler under one arm.

Reddington walked over and grabbed him under the other, but spoke to Liz. “We can’t take him with us. This wound isn’t going to be fatal in the next few hours as long as he keeps pressure on it. But he can’t come with us.” 

Liz grimaced, knowing he was right. “Maintenance closet,” she suggested, jutting her chin in the direction of a door several feet down the hallway. Reddington nodded, and they dragged Ressler toward it.

They situated him in the dark, small room, leaving him with a gun, a grenade, and a walkie talkie. 

“Be careful—“ Ressler managed, looking up at Liz as she closed the door, nodding.

Liz and Reddington jogged down the hall, both pausing at juncture points, checking to make sure the coast was clear before proceeding. Reddington ran the last few steps to the box, Liz jabbed the code into the keypad, and slammed her hand down on the biometric scanner. Footsteps echoed at the other end of the long room as the alarm sounded, signaling the slow closure of the door to the box. 

“Agent Keen?” Reddington yelled, pulling a gun and emptying it in the direction of the approaching mercenaries.

Liz sprinted the rest of the way to the box, throwing herself in behind Reddington as he swung the shotgun up and blasted several shells at the men firing on them. The door thumped closed, several heavy bolts sliding into place around the edges. 

Reddington stayed near the door, peering out through the impenetrable glass, as one of the men approached the box and pulled off the balaclava he wore over his scarred face.

“Hello, Red,” he said pointedly. “Did you really think there was a distance you could cover or a hole deep enough that you could hide in? There is nowhere in this world that I cannot reach you, Red. _Fortification be damned_.” He attempted a smile, but it pulled horrifically at his drooping mouth, giving him an even more maniacal look. “I heard you made yourself some sweet little immunity deal, Red. I heard that you fitted the FBI with strings, and now they hang upon your hip like a hatchet.” Garrick leaned to the side, peering past Red. “And what about _her_? Is she one of your puppets? Do you pull her strings? Or does she… _pull yours_?”

Liz backed up a step, and immediately regretted the action, since she knew it gave off an impression of weakness. Red turned toward her and methodically began stripping off the weapons and vest he’d liberated from the dead man in the hall, placing the things in a semi-organized pile in the corner of the box. 

“But no matter who you align yourself with… they can’t keep you safe, Red. I spent five years thinking about the pain I was going to inflict on you while slowly breaking your will, your body, and finally your mind.”

Liz wanted to burst out of the box and beat Garrick to death with her bare hands. The threats he leveled at Red made her feel sick, and the way Red’s face didn’t waver—not even the slightest flinch—away from his slightly bored, mostly irritated expression made her sad. He had gotten _used to_ people detailing the atrocities they wished to visit upon him. Liz’s teeth clenched, and she let out an angry, harsh breath. Her fingers curled in to fists. 

Reddington sensed her change in posture and looked up at her, closing his eyes for the briefest second, and giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. _Don’t take the bait_ , he seemed to silently warn her.

“That day is here, my friend,” Anslo continued, stepping up to the glass, a sneer slicing across his face. “ _And it will end with your screams_ , _as God is my witness_.” 

Liz raised an eyebrow at him through the glass. “So you’re Anslo Garrick, huh? I’ve heard a lot about you.” Liz sat down on the low cot in what she hoped was a nonchalant way. “That scar looks much worse in person than it does in pictures,” she said honestly. If she could get him to talk, maybe they could find out who sent him? Why he was there? How the _hell_ he’d gained access and decimated their defenses so quickly and thoroughly?

“Now, I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a disadvantage, love. You know my name, but I have _no clue_ who you are,” Anslo said, sitting down next to glass and leaning against it to look up and in at them. “Red, don’t be rude, now. Introduce me to the pretty little girlfriend you’ve got in there with you?” 

Reddington gave a chuckle. “You never were any good when it came to the ladies, Anslo, but now that you look like _that_ —“ Reddington gestured to his face, “—those kind of lines come off _truly horrifying_ , rather than flirtatious. I’m sure if _this one_ weren’t currently trapped in a box, she’d either be slapping you, or running in the other direction.” 

“And I think it’s a little ironic that you’re mocking Red for working with the FBI when you’ve got a history of doing exactly the same thing?” Liz spoke up suddenly, narrowing her eyes at Anslo, who scoffed. “You seemed quite chummy with us in Brussels back in ’08 when you got in touch with the team to give Ressler Red’s train number and itinerary.”

“Ha!—what a massive cock-up that was,” Garrick crowed. “I never met him in person, but if good ol’ Don had done his job correctly at the time, I wouldn’t be here now. I gave him _everything_. All he had to do was supply the bullet, but _no_.” Garrick shifted, tilting his head differently to get a better view of Liz instead of Red, who had sat in the small chair near the center of the tiny space. “But let’s go back to _your_ statement: you said ‘us’. ‘Chummy with _us_ ’.” Anslo’s mouth pulled up on one side. “Were you a part of that little kick murder squad at Waterloo Station, too?” 

Reddington’s eyes cut to Liz, but his expression and posture didn’t change. Liz didn’t see a benefit to lying, so she answered evenly, “I was there, yes.” She turned to Reddington. “But I wasn’t—“

“Not the time,” Red interrupted in a low voice. 

Garrick gave a bark of delighted laughter. “Oh, that’s wonderful. You didn’t know! That your little pet in there has tried to _bite_ you before. She was one of the ones who tried to _kill_ you, Red.”

“Mmm. Then I guess it’s just lucky for him I’m not great at my job, and _really_ lucky that someone found out about the planned hit, and knew enough about him to get a warning message through.” Liz said with a glare. She turned back to Red, her expression softening. “Lots of crazy luck that day. You should have bought a lotto ticket.” 

Reddington frowned, and swallowed. The message to run, warning him of an impending assassination attempt, had been delivered to him scrawled hastily across an American lottery ticket.

It had been the only thing in Liz’s pocket to write on when she’d managed to sneak away from the rest of the team. 

“You’re right,” Reddington said quietly, studying Liz’s face. “I guess I missed an opportunity there.”He paused for a long moment, his eyes locked with Liz’s, before he abruptly continued, raising his voice and turning his attention to Garrick. “And speaking of opportunities, Anslo, I’m looking at you, and I got to say I’m _really surprised_. With the access you now have to top-notch plastic surgeons, why you haven’t done something— _anything_ —about that _horrific_ scar…?” Reddington shook his head. “I mean, how do you wake up to _that_ staring back at you in the mirror every morning?”

“No, Red, you know what?” Liz chimed in. “It’s not the scar. It’s really the _eye_.” Liz peered closer, leaning toward the glass. “How did he survive that shot anyway?” she asked Reddington, her phrasing purposefully rude, talking about Garrick as if he couldn’t hear her. 

Red laughed. “Talk about lucky—I normally carried Hydra-Shok hollow points. I was trying out a new series of center-fire wadcutters that week.”

Liz raised her eyebrows, amping up the theatricality a bit, playing in to Reddington’s story. “Really? So the only thing that saved his life was… you _switching ammo_?” 

Red bobbed his head, a smug smile ghosting across his face. He dropped his eyes back down to where Garrick was visible on the other side of the glass, his voice dropping low. “Make sure you think about that little irony now every time you randomly find your reflection or are reminded of that… _unfortunate thing I’ve done to your face._ ”

When Liz had first had the opportunity to hear Raymond Reddington—hear him speak, hear his voice—it had been a terrible-quality wire tap, too quiet and too brief. She’d been struck by how rich it was when he’d turned himself in to the FBI and she’d watched him on the monitors above her head, in the main room at the Post Office. 

When she’d sat in front of him and actually had a conversation, in person… His voice was decadent. It truly was.

And it seemed to get even better when he was threatening people. 

Liz immediately mentally rolled her eyes at herself. She was trapped in a box with a killer and a criminal, there was a maniac outside trying to get in to kill them both, and she was stuck on how deep and attractive his voice was when he pointedly referred to a brutal attack that should have left this man dead, but instead turned his face into a twisted, puckered, drooping caricature _. ‘Not the time or the place, Liz…’_

Liz jumped as Anslo raised his weapon and fired point-blank at the glass, aiming directly at Red. The bullet ricocheted, and with a grunt, one of Anslo’s men, twenty feet behind him and just to his right, dropped heavily to the ground as it struck him in the abdomen. Anslo didn’t bat an eye, and continued to fire an additional two rounds.

Reddington laughed, and Liz did her best to twist her shocked expression into a smirk. “True to form, Anslo,” Red said. “Why take time to think when it’s so much easier to shoot?” 

“This glass was developed by Darpa for secure cover and housing in combat zones,” Liz piped up from the cot. “Your .45 might as well be a spit straw.”

Anslo ground his teeth. “Laugh while you can, you two. I’ve brought a whole picnic basket to this party. And little pig, little pig, you are _going_ to let me come in.” 

…:::…

Liz shifted on the bed, and reached down to grab a spiral notebook left over from when Reddington had drafted his immunity agreement. She’d spotted it on the floor under the cot, along with a pencil. She was getting antsy, and Reddington kept shutting down every attempt at conversation. He obviously didn’t want to give Garrick and his team any additional information, but she needed something to take her mind off their current situation or her poker face was going to slip. She’d been watching as explosive charges were placed around the sides of the box, and when Anslo ordered one of his men to grab more from the Post Office’s own armory, Liz had had enough. Time to get her mind off the current situation. 

Drawing had always settled her nerves. There was something comforting about the very slight weight of a pencil in her hand, and the soft sound the tip made as it was dragged across paper. She loved the way initial shapes and broad strokes became more detailed, and the way shading gave her subject immediate depth. She didn’t have any of her more professional smudge sticks, but her ring finger would do for now. She just hoped she didn’t break the pencil—she knew she didn’t have anything in here to sharpen it with.

Well… Red probably had a knife on him somewhere. 

She’d been drawing Raymond Reddington since she was ten years old. It began as a way to remember his face, a childish need for vengeance pushing her to practice and improve so the picture would be more accurate. She was afraid she’d forget how the man’s face had looked as he lay unconscious at her feet that night. By the time she had learned his name, she had become quite the artist.

“You know your blood type is the only one other than O-negative that we stock here?” Liz said absently, sketching quickly. 

Reddington turned to look at her. “You know my blood type?”

“B-negative. There’s only 2% of you. Did you know that?” 

Reddington tilted his head and regarded Liz from the other end of the box, watching her closely as her pencil flicked across the page. “I did. How did _you_ know that?”

“It’s my job to know things about you,” she answered, her face serene, her eyes still on her drawing. 

Reddington leaned against the glass, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like the house I lived in before I abandoned my family?”

“ _Abandoned?”_ Liz said pointedly, pausing her movements to look up at Reddington. “We both know that’s not the _whole_ story, now is it?” 

“Like that. How do you know any details pertaining to those events?” Reddington quieted his voice, glancing over his shoulder to check that none of Garrick’s team were anywhere near the box. “You know how I prefer my beds made up in the hotels I frequent. You know my favorite wines. You apparently watch my previous residence from more than twenty years ago _so closely_ that you were alerted about its recent opportunity for purchase within _three hours_ of it being listed.” Reddington narrowed his eyes. “Brussels…?”

Both fell silent as two men approached to lay more charges along one side of the box. They finished placing them and headed back toward Garrick. “He chased you for five years,” Liz said. “Ressler. His fiancée left him. He tried to make a name for himself by catching you. Yeah, sure, he tried to kill you—and got damn close that time—but it wasn’t personal, Red. You shouldn’t give him such a hard time.” Liz glanced up briefly before returning her attention to her paper. “It’s the nature of your business and your job. People try to kill you.” 

“Yes, but I generally return the favor. I saved a man’s life once under a beautiful old cedar tree in Lebanon. A month later, he tried to kill me in a hotel in Damascus. I understood, allegiances shift, but I wasn’t about to let that kind of thing go. Three weeks later I broke his neck with a shower caddy.”

“You tell stories like that to try to cover yourself in a layer of apparent ruthlessness and violence. Why?” 

“How do you know I’m _not_ actually ruthless and violent?”

Liz licked her lips and squinted at her sketch. She smudged part of his temple a bit more, then went to work on the darker material of his lapels. “You can’t judge a book by its cover. But you can by its first few chapters, and—most certainly—by its last.” Liz stopped working and looked up, past Reddington, through the glass to the group of men, arguing near the foot of the stairs. “Do you think this is our last chapter?” she asked, her voice quiet, but unwavering. 

Reddington sighed, and pushed off from the wall, seating himself in the chair near the cot. “No. I need too many more things to happen in my life for this to be the end. I want to be in the Piazza del Campo in Siena, to feel the surge as ten racehorses go thundering by. I want another meal in Paris at L’Ambroisie in the Place des Vosges. I want another bottle of wine. And then another. One more night of jazz at the vanguard. I want to stand on summits and smoke Cubans and feel the sun on my face for as long as I can. Walk on the wall again. Climb the tower. Ride the river. Stare at the frescos. I want to sit in the garden and read one more good book. Most of all, I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy. Give me that...just…one time.”

Liz’s hand had stilled awhile ago, and while Reddington spoke, his voice quiet and rhythmic, his eyes closed and his head lolling to one side, she couldn’t find it in herself to look away, even though watching his face as he ran through his list seemed like an invasion of some kind. As if she were intruding on something that should only be admitted to a priest. Or a lover. Something confidential. Her heart ached happily at the realization that he was sharing these things with her willingly, and in an attempt to soothe her. 

He was trying to comfort her.

Reddington’s eyes opened, and he stayed silent a moment longer, looking off into space, unfocussed, before he turned to look over his shoulder at Garrick. “That’s why I won’t allow that punk out there to get the best of me… let alone the last.” He swung his head back to look at Liz, and smiled tiredly at her. “You and I both have more chapters to write.” 

Just then, Cooper, Meera, and a limping, grimacing Ressler were marched into view, with Luli and Dembe, and several other agents.

“Ah! More guests joining the party…” Anslo smiled maniacally. “And one is just the man I wanted to see. Assistant Director Cooper: I need something from you. I need to get into that box,” he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of Reddington. 

Cooper stayed silent.

Anslo grabbed him by the bicep and shoved him forward, toward the box, and kicked a foot into the back of his knee when he’d gone far enough, forcing him roughly to kneel on the hard concrete floor. Anslo gestured to his men, and several more pushed Luli, Dembe, and Ressler forward and lined them up just feet from the glass. 

Liz had thrown the pad of paper down when her team had been led into the room, and she and Reddington both approached the door.

Anslo walked behind Luli and pressed his gun to the back of her head. She winced, and silent tears began to roll down her face. “Ten seconds, gentlemen. Red, come out now.” 

“Wait—“ Red said, his voice tight. He spun on Liz, and she took a step back at the look on his face. “You got us in here; you know the code. Open the box.”

Liz opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. 

“Ten… nine…” Anslo began to count.

Reddington stepped forward, grabbing Liz by the neck and pushing her roughly back against the wall. “Give him the code!” he growled, his hand tightening. 

Liz looked at him silently, apologetically, and managed a small shake of her head. “If he gets in here, you’ll be tortured and killed,” she whispered.

“Eight… seven…” 

Reddington’s right hand tightened again around her neck to the point of pain, but Liz didn’t raise her hands to claw at his grip, or push him away. He slammed his left hand harshly against the glass just beside her head, and she cringed away from it, but still said nothing. “Let me out,” he ordered.

“You’re my priority,” she rasped. 

“Six… five…”

Reddington let go of Liz with a growl, spinning to face Garrick. Luli was shaking now, tears streaming down her face. 

“Anslo, _my_ people can’t help you, but _Cooper_ can get you in here. Put that gun to _his_ head,” Reddington suggested somewhat desperately.

“Four… three…” 

“For once in your life, stop and think—“

“Two… one.” 

Liz watched Red’s body jolt as the gun went off and a spray of crimson rained across the outside of the box. Luli’s body slumped sideways to the floor, and Liz felt sick as Red slowly turned to look at her, still backed up against the wall where he’d left her. His gaze was accusatory, and angry, and laden with a profound sense of betrayal, and Liz thought frantically that she’d give almost _anything_ in that moment to regain the trust she’d managed to earn over the past several weeks. Because she’d surely lost every single ounce of it now.

“Red, I don’t have to explain what happens now, do I?” Anslo’s voice broke the silence, and Red dragged his glare away from Liz and fixed it back on the man in front of him, who had now moved to stand behind Dembe. 

Liz’s stomach dropped.

“Would you prefer that I did the countdown again?” Anslo asked with a sneer. “You open the box, or Dembe dies.” 

“Harold, _tell him_ ,” Red pleaded in a strong voice. “Ressler. You know the code. _Give him the code_. Anslo, _wait_ —“

“Wait is over, Red. People are dying now.”

Reddington turned sharply and strode over to the pile of weapons he’d brought in with them and grabbed a handgun. Liz’s face crumpled as she realized the extent of what he was willing to do to save Dembe’s life. She bit her lip, her eyes welling with tears, and shook her head miserably. Red leveled the gun at her, and she drew in a sharp breath, but the only move she made was to stand straighter, and to close her eyes with an anguished wince. 

“Raymond.” Dembe’s soft voice broke the silence. “Raymond,” he repeated, more insistent. “Ours is a friendship forged once in this life… and again in the next.”

Liz opened her eyes to see Reddington’s face turned toward his friend, but the gun was still pointed, steady, at her chest. 

“Goodbye, my brother,” Dembe added.

Red looked back at Liz, and his arm fell uselessly to his side, the gun harmlessly aimed at the floor. “Open this box,” he begged softly. “I’ll give you _anything_.” 

Liz’s resolve shook. If this cost her his trust, and he refused to work with her ever again, was it worth it? If he got out of here and ran, she’d never see him again.

But if she gave up the code and that door opened, he was a dead man. 

This was truly a no-win scenario.

Reddington’s attention was pulled from Liz as Dembe began reciting from the Qur’an. “Qul huwal laahu ahad…” 

Reddington joined in almost immediately, staring down at Dembe as he rose to his feet, only to be pushed back down by Anslo. “Allah hus-samad; lam yalid wa lam yoolad…” Both continued the prayer in unison, and tears finally began to fall down Liz’s cheeks as Red placed both palms flat on the glass in front of himself and slid down to his knees, almost level with Dembe. “Wa lam yakul-lahu kufuwan ahad.”

Liz could see Red’s expression in his ghostly reflection despite his back being turned to her, and the look of desperate torment on his face was more than she could bear. She closed her eyes again and turned her head away, her heart hammering frantically in her chest. 

When the second single shot rang out, she let her knees buckle, and sank miserably to the floor.

She would never win back his trust. It was over. 

…:::…

TBC!

My sincere apologies if I got any of the prayer wrong—Lady Kerby was sweet enough to do some research, and this was what she found. If anything is incorrect, please let me know so I can fix it! What she found to be the translation:

Qul huwal laahu ahad;  
Allah hus-samad;  
Lam yalid wa lam yoolad;  
Wa lam yakul-lahu kufuwan ahad 

He is Allah, the One and Only;  
Allah, the Eternal, Absolute;  
He begetteth not, nor is He begotten;  
And there is none like unto Him

 


	11. Anslo Garrick Part 2

Disclaimer: Heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed. I don't own any of the characters, and a lot of the dialogue and the overall story arc aren't mine either. Nothing. Nada.

Author's Note: This one was hard to do. Apparently I don't enjoy writing actual Reddington torture. It wasn't as fun being inside the head of this episode. First time I've had this problem! :/

...:::...

Chapter 11: Anslo Garrick Part 2

...:::...

The shot rang out, and Liz crumpled to the floor. He'd never forgive her.

"Go!" Garrick shouted, and Liz heard a harsh, choked exhale from Red. She looked up to see Dembe, alive, still kneeling on the other side of the blood-stained barrier. Reddington was looking at him in disbelief, his hands still bracing himself on the glass in front of him. After he glanced up at Anslo, and then back down to meet Dembe's wide-eyed stare again, he let out an almost shaky breath that with just a bit more effort would have been a moan. Liz watched him hang his head between his outstretched arms, allowing himself a rare, but brief moment of relief, trying to shake off the horror and panic he'd felt a moment before.

When he looked up, he gave a grim nod to Dembe, who inclined his head in response.

Red pushed himself up to a standing position and turned his back to Liz, who still sat against the wall where she'd dropped.

Where had that shot come from?

"Red-"

He held up a stern hand in her direction without turning toward her or looking in her direction. He shook his head.

Liz's chest felt like it had been ripped apart. He'd been so kind and comforting- -he'd actually opened up and shared something _personal_ with her- -just a few short minutes ago.

That new aspect of their tenuous relationship was obviously gone now.

' _So be it,_ ' thought Liz. If it was a choice between saving his life and having him hate her, or having his appreciation and letting him be tortured and killed... That wasn't even a choice. She'd take whatever wrath he needed to throw in her direction. It's not like she didn't deserve it.

Suddenly there was a flurry of motion, and Aram was marched roughly into the large space. He was brought into line to stand with Meera, but just as Anslo walked over to him, Cooper's cell phone rang.

"Oh, *come on*!" Anslo looked sharply in the direction of the noise, and moved to where Cooper knelt, snatching the phone from his pocket. He tossed it to the ground after looking at the caller ID on the screen.

Ressler looked up at their captor. "We're about to be joined by an entire FBI assault team. Get out now and you might survive."

Liz scrambled to her feet and looked at Aram. She caught his eye, and he gave her the slightest nod. _'Well done_ ,' she thought. This guy deserved a raise. She'd figured the cell reception had been jammed and communication had gone down, and she was suddenly immensely proud of the tech who, prior to this, had usually flown under the radar, generally underestimated by the other staff at the blacksite.

People were definitely going to know his name now.

"Okay, that's it." Anslo grabbed a second gun from one of his men and moved to stand in front of Ressler and Cooper. Pressing a gun to each of their foreheads, he demanded, "The code. You two have it, one of you is going to give it to me."

"Don't give him the code, Ressler, that's an order," Cooper said sternly.

"There's one of him and two of us," Ressler hissed through clenched teeth, jutting his chin in Reddington's direction. "He's a murderer and a criminal. Why should anyone else die to keep _him_ alive?" he reasoned.

Liz took a quick step forward to the box door. "Ressler! _No_." Her voice was low, and insistent. "Don't do this, Ressler, he's just going to kill us all anyway- -you think he's going to let _any_ of us leave after this? Once he gets his hands on Reddington, we're _all_ dead-"

"Romeo. R-O-M-E-O, romeo." Ressler's tone was low, and angry.

Reddington's posture stiffened.

Anslo turned to look triumphantly at the inhabitants of the box. "Well! Looks like Don here is trying to make up for his poor performance in Brussels!" he crowed.

Cooper was dragged to his feet, his hand placed on the biometric scanner as the code was punched in by one of Garrick's team.

"Red-" Liz moved to stand in front of him.

"Just stop," he interrupted coldly, his jaw clenching. His face was tight, but resigned, and he stood a little straighter, intent on continuing this with as much dignity as possible.

Garrick's men entered the box as the alarm sounded and the door swung slowly open. One grabbed Liz, while two more each took hold of one of Red's arms to escort them out. Deposited in front of his former colleague, Red gave a sarcastic smile and said lightly, "Anslo! What are _you_ doing here?"

Over the next two minutes there was a flurry of activity as the team gathered their gear and started their next task: exiting the Post Office with Reddington in tow.

"Time to go, Anslo," Red said quietly. "You're about three minutes away from having _dozens_ of FBI agents swarming all over this place. It's time to get the hell out of here."

Liz wondered why he was in a hurry to leave. Was he trying to save the lives of the agents gathered here? More likely he was just worried about Dembe- -Liz was sure his was the only life in this room that Red currently valued. Other than his own, and his reputation. He probably didn't want any of the Post Office team to witness the inevitable torture he was expecting, and would rather it not start now. Even with the possibility of everyone in this room dying, Reddington wouldn't want to appear undignified in front of any of them.

"I know what bloody time it is," Anslo growled. As zip ties were placed around Reddington's wrists, one of the mercenaries stepped close to his boss and angled a single piece of paper at him, which he took. Anslo glanced down at the page, up at Liz, and back to his man. He nodded in her direction, and Liz realized what the piece of paper was.

It was her drawing.

Someone grabbed her hands and placed zip ties around them, too, just as they had with Red, who looked over at the process with a frown.

"Be careful with this one, boys," Anslo was saying. "He may not look like much, but I once watched him kill a Somali with a wire coat hanger."

"Simpler times," Red replied with sarcastic nostalgia.

"Bring her, and let's go," Anslo said, and his team began to move out, pushing both Red and Liz forward.

Reddington clenched his teeth. "Why bring _her_ , Anslo? She doesn't do anything for you. She's just dead weight."

"I thought it was interesting how close you two seemed in that box..." Anslo explained as they walked quickly down a hallway. "But you pulled a gun on her in order to save Dembe. That made me think maybe you aren't as invested as she is...?" Anslo turned and sneered at Liz. "Got a little crush, sweetheart?"

Distant gunfire erupted behind them, and Garrick and his team immediately reverted to their previous businesslike precision. "Move! Faster!" Anslo ordered, pushing Liz forward roughly.

Liz wondered if any of her team had survived, as the distant sounds of gunfire ceased.

They stopped when they reached more team members who were busy drilling and setting charges on the floor. Red and Liz were spun and pulled and strapped into harnesses as Anslo paced between them, continuing with snide commentary. "I've got to admit, I'm surprised," he drawled. "Old boy's still got appeal, apparently; whatever blows your skirt up."

There was a sharp explosion to Liz's right as the charges on the floor were detonated, and a huge section of the floor dropped away into the space below. Liz jumped and flinched away from the noise; Reddington didn't bat an eye.

"But Red- -you're not interested?" Anslo continued. "I've never known you to shy away from..." Anslo paused to gently push Liz's hair back from her eyes, and trail a finger down her cheek. "...a beautiful woman." She glared and pulled away from him. "I've heard stories about you back in the day, Red. When he was your age, love, he was bedding women more often than James Fucking Bond." He laughed, and looked back at Red. "No? Nothing?" he continued. "Too bad. You should have taken advantage when you had the chance. Too late now, I suppose," he said with a smile, pushing Liz backward down through the hole. "You're up next, friend," he said, nodding at Red.

By the time they'd exited the tunnels and had been loaded into an ambulance, Red was looking intently at Liz, ignoring almost everything else going on around them. He was pushed back onto a gurney, his head turned toward Liz by the insistent hand of an EMT above him. He didn't resist as she tugged his shirt collar out to expose his neck and collar bone, prepping the area with a sloppy sponge and betadine. Red narrowed his eyes at Liz as he continued to study her. She caught his gaze and glanced down pointedly but quickly at the defibrillator paddles next to her. She dropped her hands toward the machine to power it on discreetly. He closed his eyes briefly in acknowledgement and understanding.

"Ninety seconds to the drop; _I need that chip_!" Anslo barked from the front passenger seat of the ambulance as they bounced around a corner roughly.

"Mr Kaplan?" Liz asked in a low voice, confident that Anslo was too far away to hear, especially with the sirens going, and the EMT was too distracted with her task to take note.

Red's eyebrows knit together in surprise, before he regained his composure and gave a slight nod.

With that, Liz spun sideways, grabbed the charged paddles, and leaned forward to land them on the driver's shoulder and upper chest. The shock was delivered, and with a cry, he tensed and then slumped sideways, his hands falling off the wheel and his foot off the gas. As the ambulance swerved wildly, Liz dove for the gun strapped to the side of the only other guard, the man riding in the back with them. She wrested it from its holster and swung it up to fire at Anslo, but the EMT, off balance because of the rough ride, slammed into Liz and her shot hit the driver instead.

The vehicle careened wildly out of control for a moment, Anslo pushing the limp body of the driver out the door and taking the seat himself. " _Hurry the hell up_!" he shouted, unconcerned with the chaos in the back as the EMT cut into Red's neck, fishing for the chip, while Liz wrestled with the guard for control of the gun. The man managed to get hold of the door latch, and the gun was jostled from her hands, landing on the floor of the ambulance and skittering out onto the street before either could lunge for it. Liz launched herself at the guard, who picked her up and spun her toward the flapping, open door. Liz scratched and grabbed at anything she could to hold on and stay in the vehicle. In an attempt to detach her from him, the guard gave her a swift punch in the kidney, and pushed her out the door. She hung for a moment in midair, her feet still on the threshold, her hands clutching a pouch attached to the man's weapons vest. He reached down and released the clip that kept it attached, and Liz tumbled out into the street.

She hit the ground with enough force to drive the wind from her lungs, and she rolled inelegantly over the asphalt for several meters before finally coming to a stop, her exposed elbows and shoulders badly scraped.

Still holding the pouch in her zip-tied hands, she pushed herself off the pavement and stumbled toward the luxury sedan that had swerved and stopped just in time to avoid hitting her.

Trying to keep from panicking, Liz wrenched open the passenger side door of the car and jumped in, identifying herself as FBI. She ordered the shocked man to follow the ambulance that was speeding away down the street. "Drive! _Now_!" she shouted when the man hesitated. She grabbed his cell phone from the hands-free holder on the dash and dialed Aram.

"Aram?"

"Agent Keen! Are you okay?" Aram asked, his voice obviously relieved. "Sir-!" He waved Cooper over to where he was sitting at a computer.

"I'm in pursuit of Reddington, but I lost visual. I'm on Lex and Constitution. They're trying to pull his chip!" she explained hurriedly. "I need a location, now!"

"Okay, give me just... a... second..." Aram said slowly as his fingers flew over the keys to bring up the tracking program.

"I don't _have_ a second, Aram! _Now_!"

"Okay, they're six blocks west. Turn right at the next intersection-"

"Turn right! Right here!" Liz demanded, pointing.

"You're close! They just turned south on 7th!" Aram told her. Liz passed the instructions on to the driver of her commandeered car, and they sped down 7th.

"Okay, the signal stopped moving! It's right there! It's in the middle of the street!"

Liz yelled at the man driving to stop the car and she jumped out, turning to look around her. No ambulance. No Reddington. Nothing. "There's nothing _here_ , Aram!" she shouted into the phone.

"It's right there!" he argued. "You're standing right on top of it!"

Liz looked down, and her heart sank. She knelt, and picked up a blue medical glove, turned inside out and smeared with blood. She felt a hard, smooth lump in one of the fingers. "It's just the chip," she moaned in disappointment. "They got his chip out." Liz closed her eyes and hung her head, the adrenaline draining from her body, leaving her cold and empty. "He's gone," she said softly into the phone, her voice hollow as she added, "I lost Reddington."

...:::...

Reddington hated having bags put over his head. Breathing hot air that smelled like whatever meal he'd had just prior to the bag placement was always unpleasant, and when the fabric of the bag was burlap instead of some type of cotton, it was horrendously uncomfortable. The harsh fabric never bothered him when he was younger, because his hair took some of the friction, but since he'd taken to keeping what hair he had left as short as possible... He hated the feel of burlap on his head. Reddington regarded the bag's discomfort as the first form of torture today. He was sure the next form would be equally distasteful.

He was right. After being hastily stitched up and barely bandaged, he was dragged, his hands still bound, across a concrete floor in a large, empty, dark space- -he could hear the echo of their footsteps. Warehouse. Never good. It smelled dank, and dirty, and unused.

Also not good.

When he was halted, someone grabbed his wrists and forced them above his head, the metal of a chain clanking ominously before it was secured between his hands, and pulled upwards, stretching his shoulders painfully skyward until he had to lift his heels in order to relieve the pressure on his wrists.

He hated this position. Having your hands up above your head for an extended period of time made it extremely difficult to breathe.

At least they hadn't hung him upside down. That would definitely have made his current headache worse.

"This _shall_ be fun." Anslo's voice drifted through the bag just before it was dragged off of his head, and he looked around, taking quick stock of his surroundings in the dim light.

...:::...

Back at the blacksite, the team earned a visit from Diane Fowler, one of the top brass responsible for the task force, and one of very few people who knew Reddington was working with the FBI. Liz hung back, near Aram, as Cooper and Fowler argued loudly about the fate of the team.

When she heard Fowler say the task force was- -as of that moment- -officially disbanded, Liz stepped forward. "I'm sorry, but we _have to_ find Reddington."

"No, we don't," Fowler answered angrily. "The only thing that matters now is how quickly we can contain this. Raymond Reddington is, and always has been, a fugitive at large."

Liz stood, rooted to the spot as Cooper and Fowler headed toward the main room, and the other agents slowly scattered. Swallowing the lump of panic in her throat, she spun on her heels and made a bee line for the closest stairwell for some privacy.

She dialed a number quickly, and heard, "Emissary Hotel, how can I help you?"

"Yes, I need to speak to Mr. Kaplan."

"He's not available. Can you be reached at this number?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Goodbye."

...:::...

"The girl. The agent." Anslo said nonchalantly, sitting in a chair five feet to Reddington's left. "I want to know who she is."

"Well, then, you're barking up the wrong tree, because I don't know either," Reddington admitted, watching the circling guard with apprehension.

"She was willing to trade her life for yours; she was willing to let you _shoot her_ rather than give up the code that would grant me access." He shifted in his chair, making a show of getting more comfortable as Red's shoulders screamed silently. "Someone else placing Red Reddington's life above their own. I thought for a moment you were paying her to do that, but that's not the case, is it? And you haven't slept with her?" he asked again. "Hmm." He tilted his head and regarded Red critically. "What makes you so special? An FBI agent, willing to die for a criminal?

"And then, of course, there's this..." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the folded portrait Liz had sketched while they were trapped in the box. "Beautiful." He turned the page and held it up for Red to see. "I think she captured you quite nicely. She's obviously very familiar with your face, to get the detail so exact...?"

Reddington's expression betrayed a slight amount of surprise as he studied the drawing.

"It's a pity she couldn't join us, Red," Anslo continued. "I bet she'd have loved to watch me torture you." He leaned in toward Reddington with a leering smile. "Do you think she would have begged me to stop? Offered me things in exchange for your release?"

Reddington swallowed and schooled his features into an impassive mask. "Still greedy, I see, Anslo. Lusting after too many things you can't have, things that don't belong to you. Just like the old days." Red turned as best he could to face Anslo. "I suppose, looking like you do, you must be somewhat hungry for it, though. Not many offers these days, hmm?"

The other man stood up from his chair and walked slowly toward Reddington. Anslo took a breath as if to speak, but instead- -and without warning- -he swung a vicious fist into Reddington's abdomen, causing the bound man's feet to lift off the floor, his breath stolen as he hung painfully from his wrists.

After several more blows and a likely broken rib, Anslo backed off slightly.

"As with everything having to do with you, things are more complicated than they appear," he said cryptically. "If I could end this right now and give you the _horrifying_ death you _so_ deserve..."

Reddington's lungs were tight, and his shoulders and wrists were throbbing painfully. Moving, speaking, and breathing caused a lance of pain through his left lower chest. His chip was gone, and the FBI had given him up. The task force had probably already been shut down. "Do it," he rumbled, thinking of the peace death might bring to his already aching body.

"No, Red, you see, I'm not the host of this little surprise party: I'm merely the hired help. My job was to get you to the venue. While I would pay a pretty price to silence you forever, others would pay _even more_ to hear what you have to say."

Mentally, Reddington started running lists of possible candidates for the 'host' of this party while Anslo droned on about the drug currently being injected into Red's right arm.

Anti-anesthesia. Right. Anslo wasn't messing around.

The good news: this meant he was going to stay in one piece. Whoever it was wanted him to remain whole.

At least he was keeping all his bits attached today, and it looked like he wasn't going to bleed too terribly much more. Thank God for small favors.

...:::...

When Liz finally got a call back from Mr. Kaplan, she had made it almost all the way home. She'd left Aram quietly and unofficially looking for any information from the traffic cameras for five blocks in all directions from the Post Office for the hour before the insurgency.

"You're looking for Mr. Kaplan?" a woman's voice said over the phone.

"Yes, I got your name and contact information from Raymond Reddington," Liz lied, speaking quickly. "He's been taken, and I believe his captors mean to torture and kill him." Liz waited, holding her breath.

"Pull over in another half mile. There's a small park with a blue bench-" the woman on the phone continued to give directions for their upcoming clandestine meeting, and Liz just wanted to snap at her that this wasn't the time for these kind of games, but she held her tongue.

Five minutes later found the two women sitting on the bench, mostly hidden from street view by a large, flowering bush.

"I only have one directive," the older woman began. "Keep Mr. Reddington safe. Today, it sounds like locating him is the first step in that endeavor. What do you know?"

"Not much. But I have this," Liz said, producing the pouch she'd pulled from Anslo's man's vest.

...:::...

Reddington clenched his teeth together to keep from making any sound while the blood pressure cuff did its excruciatingly painful job around his bicep. The firm squeeze felt like someone was sawing off his arm. He was drenched in sweat, and no matter how hard he tried to relax, tried to calm down, he _could not stop trembling._ His muscles quivered and shook, and his breaths came in short, shallow gasps.

"210/145," the man with the blood pressure cuff reported as he stuck a digital thermometer into his ear. Red cringed and shrank away from the lance of pain that felt like his ear drum had just burst. "103.7." Impressive.

"Inject him again," Anslo ordered.

"We're already 12cc over the limit-" the other man protested.

"Then _why isn't it working_?" Anslo bellowed impatiently.

Red allowed himself a small flare of satisfaction. Anslo wanted him to scream.

That was not going to happen.

"He's...resisting it," came the apologetic explanation. "I could stick him again, but if his heart goes into V-fib, we could lose him," he warned.

Anslo leaned into Red, inspecting the beads of sweat on his brow, and as he got closer he could hear the shuddering breaths that huffed in and out through his nose.

Red, wanting nothing more in that moment than to _eviscerate_ Anslo- -possibly with his bare hands- -did the only other thing that occurred to him as he fought another wave of nausea. Fixing his eyes straight on Anslo's, Red puckered his lips and gave a single, subtle kiss in his direction. Anslo began to laugh, and Red shook slightly harder in a sick parody of his own laughter.

"Stick him again," Anslo said, his voice low and dangerous.

...:::...

Liz had explained how she'd gotten the pouch, and while she was straightforward about the fact that she was an FBI agent, she hadn't gone into any of her motivations for reclaiming Reddington. Liz opened the small, black canvas bag and withdrew the only useful thing in it. A cell phone.

Mr. Kaplan nodded and took it from her, scanning through the contacts list and the recent call log, exactly as she'd done when she first found it.

"Only three numbers in there. Probably all burner phones. Like this one," Liz supplied.

After a quiet moment of continued investigation of the contents of the phone, Mr. Kaplan rose abruptly. "Come with me," she said.

The women walked brusquely to a car parked along the street, half a block away, and Mr. Kaplan handed Liz the keys. "Drive. I need to make a few calls."

...:::...

The man administering the injections lifted one of Red's eyelids and checked his pupil dilation with a small pen light. "I think we're ready here."

"About bloody time," Anslo replied. He stepped forward and landed a sickening punch to Red's gut.

Red's face remained almost serene as he swung from his wrists, his feet off the ground. His eyebrows slightly knit together, as if he were puzzled about something.

Anslo growled, wanting a reaction.

The beatings went on for God know's how long. For Reddington, at least, it seemed like an eternity, when in reality it was probably no more than ten minutes.

As Anslo pulled back for another hit, a guard ran into the room. "We've got company," he told his boss quickly. Anslo ground his teeth a moment before giving a frustrated sigh and following the other man out of the room.

A tall, white haired man passed Anslo in the hall as he left. "How is he?" the older man asked.

"He's ready for you, sir," Anslo said begrudgingly.

Fitch walked into the room and studied the man hanging in front of him, limply sagging from a long length of chain above his head. "All right. That's enough. Let him down." Guards moved to release the chains and another caught Reddington roughly as he pitched forward, his knees buckling under him once the rig above him no longer supported his weight. Through his haze of pain and disorientation, Red noticed a pair of scissors in the vest of the guard who caught him, and discreetly palmed it as he was helped down.

"Come on," Fitch continued, almost impatiently, seeming slightly disgusted with the scene in front of him. "Get him a chair."

As Reddington was eased back into a hard metal folding chair, Fitch gave a sigh and lowered himself onto a similar chair facing him. "I don't understand, Ray. None of this had to happen. I thought we had an arrangement."

"We do," Reddington croaked out, his gaze heavy lidded against the hard lighting. He felt like someone had rubbed chili powder into his eyes.

Fitch shook his head. "Hmm, I don't know. The people I represent...they're nervous. We don't know what to think." Fitch leaned forward slightly, and Red immediately leaned away, turning his body somewhat. He mentally cursed himself for the action, knowing he looked as if he were cowering, but he had little to no control over his body at that point. His protective instincts were on autopilot, and his reactions weren't going to be governable until whatever they'd given him wore off.

"We could've killed you." Red realized Fitch was still talking, and he blinked, trying to follow the thread of his speech. "I don't mean _today_ ; I mean _any day_. I mean _every day for the past two decades_. But we don't. We know what you have, Ray. And we know what will happen to it if you turn up dead. So we do nothing. We let you live. And in exchange... we trust that our secret remains secret."

"Nothing has changed," Reddington ground out, a slight note of desperation in his voice that he couldn't keep out. A lance of agony shot through his side, and his eye twitched in pain.

"Oh, no, I'd say everything's changed. Everything changed the minute you surrendered to the FBI. Did you think we wouldn't know? Maybe you wanted to change our arrangement. Maybe you thought you could turn yourself in and find some new friends to protect you. Maybe you plan to expose us."

"No," Reddington managed.

"What have you told, Ray?"

"Nothing."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Fitch asked harshly.

"My reasons have nothing to do with you." Red's voice was low, and quiet. He shuddered, and winced, but hardened his eyes to look at Fitch again with a degree of earnestness.

"Well, I hope so. I really do. Because I've always liked you, Ray." When Reddington closed his eyes and scoffed, Fitch continued. "You're a pain in my neck, but I like you." Fitch leaned in again. "But just know this. You were walking in the park this morning. We could have taken you then. Instead we dragged you from the safety and security of the bed you're now sharing with new friends. Why would we do a thing like that? To make it abundantly clear... There's nowhere you can go. There's no one you can trust to keep you from us. Hmm?"

Reddington shook as Fitch walked away, silently damning his body for the continued uncontrollable physical response to the drugs.

...:::...

Mr. Kaplan had pulled up the GPS log on the phone, scrolling through the recent location searches. She told Liz as she drove that five of them were innocuous, known addresses in town. The sixth was a remote location, in an industrial neighborhood. "The kind of place I'd find for Mr. Reddington if I didn't want him to be found," she said grimly.

When they pulled up alongside the warehouse, Liz stopped the car and reached for her phone.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Kaplan asked.

"Calling it in. We need back up," Liz explained as if it was obvious.

Mr. Kaplan nodded at a group of men carrying duffel bags who strode into view and stopped near one of the unguarded entrances to the warehouse. "Stay in the car if you know what's good for you," Mr. Kaplan murmured as Liz recognized Dembe, breaking off from the rest of the group. He walked to the driver's side door and nodded his head in the direction of the backseat, indicating Liz should move. She quickly did as she'd been asked, and Dembe slid easily behind the wheel.

"I'm sorry, I still have to call this in," Liz said, dialing the phone. "Your team will have a head start, but if I hide this from the people I work for, I'll be pulled from the task force and I won't be able to help Reddington anym-" Liz broke off as the line was picked up."-Meera? I need to talk to Cooper. Now."

...:::...

Not more than ten minutes later, the head of the team of men who had silently stormed the building on Mr. Kaplan's signal emerged from a loading bay and motioned the car over. Dembe drove the half block and stopped. Liz jumped out immediately. "Is he here?" she asked.

The man shook his head. "We've got evidence of torture, and two dead bodies. Garrick and another man, looked to be a guard at one of the East entrances. Other than that..." He shrugged. "Looks like they cleared out. No sign of Reddington or anyone else in the building now."

Liz's shoulder's sagged, and she turned to Dembe and Mr. Kaplan. "He's going to contact you. You have to let me speak to him," she insisted.

"My orders are to _keep him safe_. Not give him to _you_." Mr. Kaplan turned to nod at Dembe, and he pulled quickly away from where Liz stood, the sound of sirens growing louder in the distance.

...:::...

"Tell me, Agent Keen, which part of 'stand down' was unclear to you?" Cooper asked angrily as he strode over to Liz when he arrived at the warehouse. FBI agents swarmed the premises.

"This wasn't my operation," she defended herself. "Fowler may have shut us down, but did you really think Reddington's people weren't going to try to find him themselves?"

"They did this without your involvement?" Cooper asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

"The only reason the FBI is even here right now is because his people trust me enough to involve me. Isn't this what you wanted from me? Wasn't this the objective?"

"I lost a dozen people today, Keen!" Cooper roared.

"I know that, sir, but that's not on you- -that's on the men who did this. Those who took Reddington. The people _I'm still trying to track down_." Liz waited, hoping she hadn't over-stepped her bounds. When Cooper didn't answer immediately, Liz continued. "No one wants the men who did this more than I do," she promised him.

"Excuse me, Director Cooper?" Aram interrupted. "There's something you need to see," he said, gesturing to a bank of computers across the room.

...:::...

Diane Fowler walked furiously into the Post Office, several hours later. The agents were busy, and work seemed to be going on as usual. "I thought I was clear. This task force is done," she spat at Cooper.

"I think you'll reconsider," Cooper replied.

"Why in God's name would I do that?" Fowler asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Because this isn't just about Reddington anymore. Agent Keen located a surveillance outpost a few miles out of town. Next-gen tech, better than anything we have in the field."

"Surveillance on what?" Fowler asked warily.

"Us," Cooper responded matter-of-factly. "They've been watching this task force for months. Phone taps, communication logs. We're not sure to what extent. We were able to recover very little; the equipment and data were rigged to self-destruct." Cooper paused, and handed the woman in front of him a folder containing pictures of her, outside her home, getting into her car. "Something else you should know: they've been watching you, too."

...:::...

Liz was pacing the floors of her home alone that night, thanking the powers that be for parent-teacher conferences. Her phone rang, and she immediately raised it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Agent Keen."

"Red," Liz said, her voice heavy with relief. "Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Gone." Reddington leaned into the pay phone box, his broken rib causing him to list sideways on the cold street.

"...are you coming back?" Liz asked, holding her breath as she waited for a response.

"There's a mole in your organization. And probably one in mine, too," Reddington replied, not answering her question.

"We know," Liz said. "The task force thinks you have information about whoever was surveilling us. About who took you. Right now our only objective is to find you and bring you in again." Liz paused, pursing her lips. "What should I tell them?"

"I have to go."

"Red, no, please wait..." Liz ran a hand through her hair, desperately glancing around her living room. What could she say to make him stay? "I need you to tell me you're coming back. Tell me this is temporary. And while you're gone, whatever you need to do... I want you to know, wherever you are, whatever you're doing... If you need anything...?" After a long silence on the other end of the line, Liz added softly, "We're not done yet."

"Agent Keen..." Reddington swallowed, his jaw working ineffectually. "Liz."

At the sound of her name, Liz sank down to sit on the edge of the coffee table. She stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt whatever was said next, as if she could scare him away like a skittish animal. Hope blossomed in her chest and took a deep breath.

"I traveled extensively... for my job... I spent time all over the world before _and_ after I left the navy."

Liz bit her lip. Where was he going with this?

Reddington cleared his throat. "I was married. I had a daughter, but... I was not a good husband, for a time. I loved my wife; I'm not-" Reddington stopped abruptly, frowning and glancing down at his feet. "But there were times that I... I'm not proud of it, but I need to know..." Reddington lifted his gaze, staring down the busy street without actually seeing anything. "Do you have evidence that... Are you under the impression..." He shook his head, and frowned down at his feet again. "Am I your father?"

Liz felt as if a huge weight had crushed her chest. He didn't know. He didn't know anything about their past, and all he could see was a girl, young enough to be the product of one of his passing infidelities during a foreign assignment in the 1980s, willing to protect him and seemingly obsessed with him.

She had worried before that he would think she was a school girl with a crush. A silly child, immature enough to have fairy-tale-style, romantic notions about the criminal she studied.

But this was worse. Whatever her feelings for Reddington were- -feelings she hadn't even fully figured out herself, especially in the wake of the recent information regarding her marriage and the identity of her husband- -they certainly were not of a familial nature.

Whatever she might want from Reddington, he saw her as a child. A girl. Not as an equal.

As a daughter.

If she'd been placed in that role in his head, he'd never look at her with anything other than, at best, a protective, fatherly concern.

Liz realized she hadn't responded yet, and she swallowed, hoping to control her voice to a degree that her heartbreak wouldn't be betrayed.

"No."

She cringed as she forced down what felt like a silent, dry sob. "Red... please be careful out there," she managed, her voice low and hollow.

The line went dead, and Reddington stared at the phone in his hand. Clenching his jaw, he replaced the receiver and pulled the collar of his jacket up around his head, disappearing easily into the packed city street foot traffic around him.

...:::...

TBC.

Sorry about the delay on this chapter! I'm amazed at how many reviewers thought I'd be evil enough to actually kill Dembe.

GUYS. Dembe is safe. No plans to kill off one of my favorite characters. Rest easy.

Might be another minute before I can get the next chapter up! I'm in the process of moving across the US, and selling a house, and job hunting... It's a whole thing. So I'm busy. :)

Reviews make me grin, and I promise I'll get to the next chapter as fast as possible!


	12. The Good Samaritan and The Alchemist

*MY* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and most of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: These two were tougher to combine. And if some good lines or fan-favorite scenes seem to be missing, don’t fret. I may just be saving them for later. ;)

…:::…

Chapter 12: The Good Samaritan and The Alchemist

…:::…

Liz came up with a half-hearted explanation for the surveillance van that—for the foreseeable future—was parked outside their residence. Tom made a show of being bothered by it, bringing it up several times the first night, suggesting that Liz’s job was getting to be too much, complaining that this was no way to raise a child, and reminding her again that they hadn’t even talked about starting the adoption process back up again since he’d been attacked in their own home—something else he pointed the blame squarely at Liz for.

Liz tried her hardest to play her part, all the while assuming Tom’s main problem with the surveillance van was that it made it more difficult for him to do… whatever it was that he did.

…Besides being a fourth grade teacher.

…Like whatever he’d been doing with Gina Zanetakos, for example.

Liz shook her head and tried to follow what Tom was saying. “…in Lincoln. Before you throw that coffee cup at me, just hear me out. Okay? There are great schools. There’s low crime. There’s an FBI field office. I just want to be a normal, boring couple…”

Liz looked at him like he’d lost his mind. Which was probably true: she had half a mind to just break character and remind him that if his end-game was information about Reddington, moving to Lincoln, Nebraska was not going to further his mission. He was desperate, and grasping at straws. He’d been nervous and slipping since her father’s funeral, and she wished she knew why, considering how careful he’d been up until that point.

“Nebraska,” Liz said in a monotone. “Lincoln… _Nebraska_.”

“Yes. Just think about it; promise me? They’ve asked me to fly out for an interview this week. I already have a flight booked.”

“You understand the only family I had in that state died less than a month ago?” Liz asked, not bothering to hide her contempt for the idea of relocating.

“Liz, I know, but you grew up there, I thought—“

Liz’s phone buzzed. “We need to talk more about this,” she said, pointing at Tom as she answered the phone and walked into the next room in an attempt at privacy.

…:::…

All of the members of the task force were submitted to rigorous interrogation, polygraphs, and interviews over the next several days. Liz, Aram, Meera, Ressler, and even Cooper had to give their statements over and over and over again, repeating the details to multiple people. They were grilled on specifics, including where the hell Luli’s body disappeared to: sometime between Liz and Red being led away in restraints and the final smudge of blood being wiped from the floor, they lost a corpse. This was something ODNI kept coming back to, as if Reddington’s ability to steal back the body of his employee was somehow worse than an incursion by a violent group of mercenaries and the death of twelve agents and FBI staff. Thirteen if you counted Luli.

Liz did her best to answer appropriately.

She missed Reddington.

If she just had some indication that he would resurface again at some point, it wouldn’t make things seem nearly so bleak at work, because while they were tasked with hunting him down and bringing him back in, Liz knew that unless Reddington wanted to be found, he wouldn’t be.

…:::…

Reddington, for his part, had decided to clean house.

He found members of the surveillance team.

He found the EMT who had removed the tracking chip from his neck.

He found the man who had presided over his torture and interrogation in the warehouse.

Each swore they’d never worked with the others ever before, were paid cash in small bills for their services, and didn’t have any way to contact the people who hired them. No phone numbers, no locations, no names.

He killed every one of them.

…:::…

Liz’s phone rang twice in quick succession as she juggled the groceries on her way from the car to her kitchen. After managing to place all of the bags on the counter without dropping anything, the phone in her pocket began to ring again, and she pulled it out hastily, assuming she was about to get a stern talking-to from Cooper or Ressler about answering her phone promptly—

“Agent Keen.”

“ _Red_ —“ Liz immediately forgot about her groceries. “Where are you? It’s been _days_ — _weeks_ —“

“I have something for you.”

Liz paused, trying to gauge his tone, but she couldn’t ascertain anything from him over the phone. “Last time we talked it was ‘Liz’. We’re back to ‘Agent Keen’ again?” she asked, her voice tight with disappointment.

“The next name on the Blacklist,” Reddington continued, ignoring the question. “There’s someone I think you should find.”

As Reddington explained who The Alchemist was, and what he was able to do to his victims on behalf of his clients, Liz struggled to pay attention.

She was just relieved to hear his voice. She had no idea what had been done to him by Anslo Garrick, but based on the location of the warehouse, the blood found at the scene, and the restraints hanging from the ceiling, she guessed she didn’t _want_ to know.

“So… does this mean you’re back? Are you still working with us?” Liz asked when he’d finished.

“No,” Reddington replied. “I’m not ‘back’. But I am still working with you—just you. There’s a leak in your organization, and I’m doing my best to track down the problems on my side of the line, too.”

“’Track down’?” Liz repeated. “For what purpose?”

There was a pause before Reddington replied, “I think in this particular case I’m going to allow you continued plausible deniability. So I’m not going to answer that.”

“How can you be sure I’m not part of the problem?” Liz asked. “You’re still willing to work with me.” Liz paused, wondering whether she should ask. “Why?” she finally managed.

There was a long pause. “I’ve had my people thoroughly checking your background, your associates, your movements, and your financials since you volunteered to be my liaison at the FBI,” Reddington explained carefully. “And while there have been several interesting things that have come up during the course of their…research…” Another pause. “…including what amounts to veritable nonexistence prior to the age of ten…” Liz swallowed and closed her eyes, but Reddington continued, his voice steady. “…there has been no indication at any time that you might be working for anyone other than the FBI. You most certainly have your own agenda… but I don’t believe you mean me any harm. Am I right in that assumption?”

“Yes,” Liz replied quietly. “Yes, you are.” She cleared her throat, and continued, “The EMT who removed the chip from your neck was found dead in an alley behind the hospital where she worked. That was you, wasn’t it.” Her tone didn’t indicate it was a question.

Liz took Reddington’s refusal to answer the question directly as a ‘yes’. “Those directly involved were easy to find. The second tier of people involved in the incursion and my… detainment… are proving slightly harder to identify.” There was a short silence. “But it’s just a matter of a little leg work,” Reddington finally added.

“Is there anything I can… help you with?” Liz asked before she had a chance to fully think about the consequences of the offer. She was an FBI agent, proposing a criminal allow her to help him track down other criminals for the purpose of retribution and revenge. Liz frowned and knit her eyebrows together, wondering how to back-pedal.

Reddington was obviously surprised by her offer as well, as it took a long time for him to speak again.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Reddington, wait, please—“ Liz broke off when she heard the line go dead, and sighed in frustration as she tossed her phone on to the counter in front of her.

…:::…

“I’ve got something,” Liz said, striding in to the Post Office.

“You’ve spoken with Reddington,” Ressler assumed. “When? Did you report it?”

“Not yet. But he gave me the next name on the Blacklist.”

“We’re all under suspicion here, Keen. He called, and you didn’t report it?” Ressler’s limp seemed more pronounced when he was angry. He was still using a cane after the surgery to repair the shattered bone in his lower leg, and as he jerked to his feet and hobbled toward her, Liz couldn’t help but notice how ineffectually he was using his cane. He must be _really_ upset.

She could only imagine how much trouble he’d have if he knew what she’d done in Brussels in 2008. He’d probably drop the cane and tip right over on to the floor.

“I _will_ report it; I’m on my way to Cooper’s office now—but Aram: while I’m upstairs, there’s something I want you to start working on—I need all the information you have on Pytor Madrczyk. He’s a Serbian mob informant—“

“Was,” Aram interrupted.

Liz faltered. “What?”

“Was,” Aram repeated. “Past tense.” He spun his computer monitor toward Liz, showing the top news story: a plane crash, with no survivors. “Pytor Madrczyk is dead.”

…:::…

Liz called Reddington’s new cell phone number as soon as she got into her office and shut the door. When he picked up, she got straight to the point.

“You said the Alchemist had been hired to protect Pytor Madrczyk. But he’s dead. His plane crashed earlier this morning. No survivors.”

“Pytor Madrczyk is alive,” Reddington responded almost immediately. “Your medical examiner will tell you the body recovered from the wreckage is his, but it’s not. DNA, dental prints… the Alchemist can change all of that. He’s an artist who paints in blood and saliva samples. Human tissue is his canvas. I’m not ashamed to say he’s even better than _me_ at helping people disappear, which is why Madryczyk hired _him_ and not _me_.”

“Wait, Madryczyk tried to hire you?” Liz said, suddenly understanding how Reddington had the information he did, and why he’d suddenly been able to point the FBI at the Alchemist with a small amount of certainty about his current job. “Do you know where he was planning to end up?”

“If I tell you, promise me you’ll try the fertilized duck eggs. It’s a daring and unique dining experience. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to hell.”

“ _That’s_ supposed to make me want to eat them?” Liz asked, a smile playing across her lips; Red was joking with her. She’d worried that the Garrick debacle and their recent time apart had irreparably damaged whatever relationship she’d managed to establish with him, but here he was, trying to bring some levity to the proceedings. It gave her a small amount of hope.

“Fine, you don’t have to eat the duck eggs. You can tell me why you saved my life in Brussels instead.”

Liz bit her lip and looked at the floor. “Do they put any kind of… sauce… on the duck eggs…?”

Reddington gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Budapest.” He stepped from the car he’d been waiting in and shut the door with a heavy thump. “Now I’ve got some business to attend to right now, so I’m going to have to discuss the culinary choices available in Hungary at some other time. Good luck.” He hung up, and dropped his phone into the pocket of his black, hooded jacket. Bathed in cold winter sunlight, he walked across the street to the club he’d parked in front of.

Reddington had tracked the payments made to the players in his abduction back to a man named Fyodor, and after entering his club and shooting everything that moved—including Fyodor, once, in the leg—he grabbed the pleading man from the floor and tied him to a chair before sitting down next to him, and placing his gun on the table in front of them. After being doused in alcohol and having lit matches waved in his face, Fyodor finally gave up the name of the banker used for Garrick’s mission. Reddington considered lighting a cigar and torturing the man for a few more minutes, but time was of the essence. One last bullet and the club was silent as Reddington made his way back out into the harsh light of day, and returned to his car.

…:::…

Two pieces of information came in almost simultaneously the next day.

The first was the exact location of Pytor Madrczyk. Ressler, Meera, and a field team had flown to Budapest, and based on solid intel, they now knew where their target would be that night, provided Reddington was correct and Madrczyk was not, in fact, a ghost.

The second piece of information came just minutes after Cooper’s phone call with Meera and Ressler, during which Aram explained how he’d managed to track down the best possible exact location to apprehend Madrczyk. Separately, he’d also been searching a particularly large database of banking information in the background on his computer—another angle in the internal mole hunt investigation—and when Cooper excused himself back to his office, Liz and Aram were left alone at his workstation. Aram minimized a window in order to check the progress of his search, and there, unmistakably, was a picture of himself.

His face blanched, and Liz, standing over his shoulder, frowned. “Aram? What is this?” she asked in a low voice.

“I... I-I don’t know,” Aram stammered, scrolling back to check he’d set the parameters correctly. “This… this says I’m the mole. This says I…” He turned to look at Liz, a horrified expression on his face. “This says I got paid by the people involved in the incursion. This says my name is Louis Coogan. _This says I’m the mole_ ,” he hissed, panicked.

Liz leaned forward and without asking permission, deleted the search, closed all of the windows on Aram’s desktop, and shut down the computer. She could tell the poor man was obviously shaken to the core, because he usually got fussy if someone so much as touched his computer screen with their fingertip, and here she was, being allowed to lean over his lap and use his own keyboard and mouse to close programs and shut down his machine without uttering so much as a peep.

“Come with me; don’t say anything,” Liz murmured under her breath. She steered Aram toward the exit, and before shoving him into the elevator, she instructed him quietly to get in his car, drive straight home, and _stay there_.

“But—Agent Keen—I don’t understand what you’re planning to—“

…:::…

“Agent Keen, what can I do for you?” Reddington answered the phone on the second ring. “Have you managed to track down and apprehend the ghost of Pytor Madrczyk?”

Liz clicked the door to the stairwell shut. “Actually, this is about something entirely unrelated. This is about the mole in the FBI. I think I found it—or at least, who they want us to _think_ is the mole,” Liz corrected herself quickly.

“You have my attention.”

“Aram tracked the money, and found a $250,000 payment through Gestalten Landesbank to a covert account belonging to Louis Coogan.”

“Who is Louis Coogan?”

“It’s an alias. _For Aram_.” Liz hurried on. “But it wasn’t him. I can’t prove it, but the look on his face when he realized what was going on… He was horrified. And confused. This is not a devious criminal mastermind we’re dealing with here: Aram is one of the most honest and honorable people I know.”

“Who else knows?”

“No-one. We were alone at his station when the results came in. I deleted the search and shut his computer down, and told him to go straight home. He’s on his way now. Reddington, if my team finds this information, they won’t look into it any further, but I _know_ they’ll have the wrong person. It wasn’t Aram,” she said firmly. “And I bet you can help me prove it.”

Reddington nodded, even though Liz couldn’t see him. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Red, listen, he’s not involved, I _know_ he’s not—I didn’t tell you this so you could—Red, _don’t hurt him_ , I _know_ he wasn’t part of this—“ Liz looked down at her phone to see the call was ended. She redialed, but Reddington didn’t pick up.

All she could do at this point was trust Reddington, and hope she’d done the right thing.

…:::…

Reddington had intended to visit Henry Krueger—the man responsible for bank rolling Anslo Garrick and his team—that night, but now that Aram had been implicated, he delayed his visit to Henry in favor of having poor Aram snatched off the street outside his apartment by a few loyal thugs, who threw the frantic man in the back of an unmarked van and pulled a black bag over his head.

The bag was removed as Aram was shoved down in a chair across a table from Reddington.

“Hello, Aram.”

“Wait…what is this?” he said warily as he recognized Reddington and looked around at the basement he found himself in. “Where am I?”

“You’re going to do something for me,” Reddington explained calmly. He passed a piece of paper to Aram, and slid his laptop over to the younger man. “Account numbers, routing information. You’re going to steal five million dollars from that account and place it into one of mine. I expect the transaction to be untraceable.” Reddington’s voice was matter-of-fact and unemotional.

Aram’s was not. “What? I can’t—!”

“Aram,” Reddington interrupted him, and brought his attention to a gun he placed on the table. “This is a Colt .45 1911. I can strip and reassemble this weapon in well under two minutes.”

Aram saw where he was going with this, and swallowed harshly. “Mr. Reddington, please.”

“Once I have it reassembled,” he continued, “I’m going to reload the mag, and if at that time your task remains incomplete, I’m going to empty that mag into your head.”

“That’s really messed up,” Aram stated, quietly horrified.

“Oh, don’t look so stricken,” Reddington said comfortingly. “The first shot will kill you.”

The younger man stayed frozen, staring at Reddington until he began to move, picking up the gun in front of him and beginning to disassemble it with practiced, deliberate movements. Aram frantically grabbed the computer and began to type.

Reddington was relatively sure Aram had had nothing to do with the incursion or his capture. He was somewhat proud of his ability to read people, and this agent appeared to be one of the few decent human beings left on this planet.

And Agent Keen had vouched for him. Reddington was slightly surprised to find that he valued that piece of information quite heavily, and slowed his movements just a touch as he began to reassemble the weapon. This served two purposes: it gave Aram extra time to complete his task, since Reddington didn’t particularly want to have to explain to Agent Keen why he’d had to kill her friend and colleague, and it also ensured he’d get his five million dollars. He couldn’t physically go after Alan Fitch, but he knew the man had secret bank accounts in the Caymans, and there should be _some_ negative—and immediate—consequence in exchange for the torture. Five million didn’t make them even, but Reddington felt it was a good first step.

As the magazine was reloaded and Reddington clicked a bullet into the chamber, Aram spun the computer toward him. “Wait. Wait wait wait _wait_ —I did it. It’s done. Look. It’s untraceable, like you asked.”

Reddington eyed the screen suspiciously. “How? Explain.”

“I used a ripple exchange to have the Fiat currency converted to e-cash and then into Bitcoin. I ran the whole transaction through a randomized cryptographic extension at the protocol level, then trough a two-tiered secure laundry service I _know_ I can trust. No one’s gonna catch you. I promise.”

Reddington nodded. “Congratulations, you’re innocent.”

“I am?” Aram asked, confused, before dropping his voice and repeating himself with a more confident inflection. “I mean…I am.” Confusion clouded his face again. “Wait…of what?”

Reddington chuckled. “The team that broke into the black site was paid through Gestalten Landesbank. My contact there traced a $250,000 payment to a covert account belonging to Louis Coogan, which is an alias.” Reddington nodded at Aram. “For you. Someone is attempting to implicate you as a mole by creating a money trail that leads directly to you. But you’re obviously too clever to have accepted payment that was so easily traceable.”

“So…you’re not going to kill me?” Aram clarified.

“No. I’m going to visit a banker, and he’s going to tell me who was _actually_ behind this whole debacle. And I’m going to kill _them_.” Reddington stood up, but the muscle standing behind Aram put a heavy hand on his shoulder when he attempted to rise, too. “Unfortunately, since we can’t have you waltzing back into the FBI without proof of your innocence, you’re going to have to stay here awhile.” Aram looked around the dank room with no small measure of despair. “Cheer up,” Reddington advised. “You’re still alive.”

…:::…

Less than twenty-four hours later, Aram walked back into the Post Office, clutching an armful of files and folders, all detailing the payments made by the banker Henry Krueger in the process of planning the incursion. They also proved that the quarter of a million dollars in Louis Coogan’s account had nothing to do with him.

Liz breathed a sigh of relief, and made a mental note that she once again owed Reddington a favor. She smiled across the office at Aram, who returned her smile and inclined his head toward her subtly, but gratefully.

…:::…

Later that night, as Liz was opening a bottle of wine, she heard a key in the lock of the front door, and her heart sank. Tom was supposed to be on a plane right now. She’d been looking forward to a night alone, without having to lie or put on a performance for her husband, but Tom had obviously decided against his hare-brained idea of interviewing for a job in Nebraska, coming home to try to smooth things over with her instead. Liz swallowed, tried to arrange her face into something approximating an appropriate expression, poured a second glass of wine, and called out, “Thank you for coming back. I don’t want to fight; let’s just talk—“

Liz stopped short at the sight of Raymond Reddington standing in her living room. “Oh thank God,” she breathed, closing her eyes briefly.

Reddington cocked an eyebrow. “Number four on the FBI’s Most Wanted list just broke into your home late at night. And you’re…relieved…?”

“I thought you were Tom,” Liz explained, and after another beat, her face slowly broke into a smile. “But at this point I’d much rather share this bottle of wine with you than with him,” she said, extending her hand to offer him the second glass. “Truth be told, I’d much rather have a root canal than spend one more night in this house faking my marriage.”

“Have you made any progress on that front? Found anything else incriminating in regards to your husband?” Reddington accepted the glass of wine and took a sip before setting it on the coffee table and shrugging out of his suit jacket.

Liz watched his movements for a few seconds too long, elated by the show of trust: he was comfortable enough in her house to shed one of his usual layers. She realized he’d asked her a question she hadn’t yet answered when he looked up at her, expectant.

“No. We’ve been working non-stop on the Alchemist, and in any down time we searched for you.”

Reddington nodded and sat on her couch. She took a seat across from him. “And the Alchemist?”

“Ressler and Meera picked Madrczyk up at a club in Budapest and immediately flew him back to DC. Eric Trettel—your Alchemist—was apprehended trying to impersonate Madrczyk’s lawyer. We think he was trying to get close enough to kill him in case he talked.” Liz took a sip of wine and studied the man in front of her. “Thank you. For the information. For coming back. For helping Aram.”

“I’m not in the business of punishing the innocent, Agent Keen. He hadn’t done anything wrong.” Reddington worked his jaw, trying to decide how much more to say. “And I appreciate you passing the information regarding his supposed guilt on to me before reporting it to your superiors. Though I’m not entirely sure why you did.”

“I knew he wasn’t involved, and I knew you…and whatever methods you might employ…would likely clear his name faster than the FBI and its red tape and propensity for jumping to conclusions about people’s guilt. Something I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

Reddington looked up from the wine glass he’d been inspecting, but said nothing in response, choosing instead to ask, “Do you know the name Lucy Brooks?”

Liz took a moment to adjust to the change in subject. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name. Do you have a picture?”

“Not on me,” Reddington replied. “But I’ll get one for you.”

“Who is she?” Liz asked.

“Someone has been making…inquiries about me. Her name came up in the course of my investigation. As did Gina Zanetakos’ name. The same investigation that put your husband on my radar.”

“You found evidence that Tom is looking into you? What evidence?” Liz put her wine down and leaned forward in her seat, eager.

Reddington shook his head. “For the moment, I’d advise you not to mention the name Lucy Brooks, and don’t attempt to look her up in any official database. They’ll have her flagged by now. You’ll undoubtedly come under additional suspicion, and I need you fully functional and in good standing with the FBI for the foreseeable future. This also means I need you to continue to play your role at home, with Tom.”

“But—“

“No. I don’t have anything concrete yet, and you’re perfectly placed to monitor him and provide intel.”

“So I’m just an asset,” Liz said, disappointed, her voice cold. “While the FBI believes you’re our informant…I’m actually _yours_.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the way this has to be for the time being. After what happened with Anslo, I have to draw a line here, for my own protection.”

Liz leaned farther forward, her elbows on her knees. She stared intently at Reddington before murmuring, “You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air, they disappear.”

The silence stretched between them as they held each other’s gaze. Reddington finally blinked, and asked, “Were you able to bargain for a list of the Alchemist’s clients?”

“Yes,” Liz replied, before doing the math. “Is that what you want? To see the list? Who is it that you’re looking for? Do you expect to find Lucy Brooks on that list?”

Reddington stood up, shrugging on his jacket. “I’d love to talk more, Agent Keen, but I still have some unfinished business tonight.”

He made his way to the front door, and Liz remained seated, refusing to do him the courtesy of showing him out. As his hand grasped the door handle, Liz’s voice stopped him.

“What would have happened if I’d said I _was_ your daughter?”

Reddington turned back to look at her, his expression unreadable. He stared at her a long moment before pulling the door open. “But you’re not.” After another beat, he dipped his head, turned up his collar against the cold wind, and disappeared into the night.

…:::…

TBC.


	13. Madeline Pratt Part 1

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Yep. I skipped The Cyprus Agency almost entirely. And I don’t even feel bad about it. (Okay, I used one scene. But that’s it.)

…:::…

Chapter 13: Madeline Pratt Part 1

…:::…

“The box in Istanbul,” Dembe said without pre-amble as he walked into the room.

Reddington looked up from his recliner, the thin acupuncture needles on his face waving slightly with the movement. “Hmm?”

“It’s been cleared out,” Dembe continued, handing his boss an envelope. “This was left behind.”

Reddington sighed. “I was just starting to feel the endorphins vibrating in my spleen…” He opened the envelope carefully, and read the message scrawled in an elegant hand: _Windsor Lounge, 8pm. –M_

“How’s our team doing?” Reddington asked, changing the subject as he replaced the note in its envelope. “Sifting through the trash?”

“They think they’ve found an RFP that might be useful. It’s not completely reconstructed yet.”

Reddington nodded and closed his eyes again, leaning his head back in the chair. “Let me know when it is.”

…:::…

Madeline Pratt stepped off the elevator and crossed the lobby to join Reddington, choosing a stool two places away from him at the almost empty but very exclusive hotel bar she’d indicated in her note. She was fifteen minutes late, which bothered him almost as much as the fact that she’d stolen from him, but not _nearly_ as much as the smug smile she wore as she sat down.

“The key to the box,” he said, his voice low and straight to the point. “How did you get it?”

“Macau… last winter.” Her smug smile grew larger.

“I’ve always hated Macau,” Reddington said with a sigh, gazing down into his drink. “The documents in the box are worth over ten million,” he pointed out, somewhat needlessly. She knew _exactly_ how much they were worth.

“You stood me up in Florence,” she explained. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

This managed to dissipate the last of Reddington’s anger quite quickly. If she had just taken the money, retribution would have been necessary. But hell hath no fury like Madeline Pratt scorned, and if this was all payback for Florence there was a not-so-small part of him that understood her stunt in Istanbul. Could even see that it was, in some ways, justified.

And she was always so much fun to spar with. Why make an enemy over the latest move in a chess game that had been going on for years? And was most likely far from over? Reddington raised an eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Seeing that he’d forgiven her—or at least as much as he was going to—Madeline reached across the stools between them and picked up his tumbler of scotch to take a sip. Returning his glass to the bar in front of him, she smiled suggestively and continued, “I have a proposition.”

“In that case—“ Reddington stood, placed money on the bar, and downed the remainder of his drink in one swallow. “—perhaps I should follow you back up to your room.”

“Just like that?” Madeline asked lightly, still smiling. “You’re not even going to offer to buy me a drink first?”

“If memory serves,” Reddington murmured, stepping closer to her, “we don’t need alcohol to have a good time. Or to talk business.”

“Mmmm…” Madeline leaned toward him, looking up at him through her lashes. “And which is it you’re expecting upstairs in my room? Business? Or ‘a good time’?”

Reddington returned her suggestive smile. “Maddie… we both know those two things have never been mutually exclusive with us.”

…:::…

“So who’s house is this?” Liz asked early the next morning, taking a seat in what looked to be a very old, very expensive chair.

“A hedge fund manager. He’s been on vacation ever since the SEC started its investigation. Years ago I helped him track down his birth parents, and he’s owed me a favor ever since.”

_Birth parents_. Liz nodded, hoping her next sentence wasn’t too presumptuous. She didn’t know if their relationship had progressed to the point that she could discuss truly personal matters with Reddington, but there was simply no one else she could talk to about Tom. She decided to test the waters. “Tom wants to start discussing adoption again.”

Reddington tilted his head, silence reigning for a moment before he replied carefully, “Are you comfortable going ahead with that discussion?”

“No. I have to tell him I’m not ready. We’re not ready.” Liz sighed, frustrated. “I feel like I’m going through all of the turmoil and emotional hardship of a divorce, but without the reward and relief of _space_. Mentally, emotionally, I’m already _gone_ , but every morning we get up and make coffee together. He still puts his arms around me at night, and it’s getting harder to—“ Liz broke off and took a steadying breath. She might be able to confide in Reddington to a certain point, but she’d already said more than she’d intended to. “I can continue to live with him, to pretend to be his wife, but… to discuss—to plan—to have a child with him?” She shook her head. “I’m a decent actress, but he’ll see through that. I can’t fake that.”

“You’ve done a fine job of it so far…? And you don’t have to actually go through with it. You just need to talk about starting the process again. These things take months—years—and there’s very little chance that—“

“I never wanted a child in the first place,” Liz admitted.

Reddington looked at her curiously. “Never?”

Liz shook her head. “I like kids. I love playing with them, I think they’re cute. I’m _good_ with them. They like me.” She shrugged. “But you can enjoy _watching_ basketball and not enjoy _playing_ it. You can love dogs, but be self-aware enough to realize that a puppy doesn’t fit with your lifestyle and career.” Liz looked at Reddington, meeting his gaze. “I love kids. I just don’t think I need to have one myself.”

Reddington stared at her a long moment before looking away, nodding thoughtfully. “You were willing to adopt one to please your husband six months ago.”

Liz sighed. “A lot has changed in the last six months: work, my feelings for…” Liz faltered before continuing, “…my husband…” She looked down at her hands, folded in front of her. “Tom isn’t real; my husband is a fictional character designed to infiltrate my life for the express purpose, apparently, of gleaning information about _you_.”

“And why is that?” Reddington asked, frowning. “Why would someone be placed specifically with _you_ , a woman who has _never met me_ , in order to learn more about their target?” Reddington shifted in his seat, turning his body toward Liz. “Why you?”

“I’m the FBI’s leading expert on you, I’ve written papers and given presentations, helped track you internationally, over several years—“

“We both know there’s more to it than that, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop lying to me.”

Liz looked up at Red sharply. “I’ve never lied to you,” she said earnestly. “But I can’t…tell you what you want to know right now. The safest place for you right now is working with me, and I think the safest place for me right now is working with you.” Liz’s face was pained, and she shook her head regretfully. “But I can’t give you all of the information _why_ just yet.”

“Why not?” Reddington asked, his voice low.

Liz bit her lip and looked away from where Reddington sat. Her eyes lit on a painting of a young woman at a piano on the opposite wall. “That’s an ugly painting,” she said bluntly.

Reddington followed her gaze. “Yes, she’s _breathtakingly_ unattractive, isn’t she?” he agreed. “But she’s worth over forty million—the only Vermeer in private hands. A few hours ago, I got up for a scoop of orange sherbet and she caught my eye. I just _stood here_ in the dark squinting at her. Poor thing _ruined_ my appetite.”

Liz gave a small mental sigh of relief, glad her refusal to share information hadn’t completely soured his sense of humor. “And just imagine what kind of hideous music she must be making…?” she said, playing along.

Reddington seemed almost surprised, but mostly pleased, at her response, and rewarded Liz with an actual smile, which she gladly returned.

“So,” she said, sitting forward. “Why did you call me here?”

“Madeline Pratt,” Reddington answered, switching topics easily.

Liz’s stomach dropped at the name. She knew who Madeline Pratt was, and she was familiar with the history she had with Reddington. Her own marriage was in tatters, and he wanted to discuss one of his past paramours? This was not what she needed right now… but she couldn’t let Reddington know that. “Madeline Pratt is a thief,” she said, her voice flat.

The fond smile that graced Reddington’s face made Liz want to cringe, but she clenched her jaw and stayed silent.

“That she is. And also a woman of… singular talents.” His affectionate smile didn’t fade, and Liz shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“And now you want something of hers and you expect the FBI to help you get it,” Liz guessed, her tone harsher than she meant to allow. “How do we find her?”

“Oh, _finding_ Maddie is easy. _Catching_ her is difficult. Luckily, last night she asked me to help her plan a heist.”

Last night?

“To steal what?” Liz asked stiffly.

As Reddington explained the history of the Effigy of Astarte and what the funny little statue was thought to contain, Liz mentally ran through what she knew of Madeline Pratt. Attractive woman in her forties, blonde in recent years, though she’d been brunette during her most famous work twenty years ago in England. To the rest of the world, she was a politically active, influential, decent citizen, but Liz knew she was a seductress whose talents lay in fostering relationships with incredibly powerful people. Powerful people whom she then exploited, usually in ways that impacted national security.

She was sure Reddington understood that Madeline only set her sights on him due to his standing in the criminal underworld. He _had_ to know she was only interested in the ways she could use him.

Liz cringed. Poor choice of words.

“Oh, don’t look so distressed.” Reddington’s voice broke through her reverie, and Liz looked up at him. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. We have a meeting with her this afternoon. Don’t wear a suit.”

“ _We_ have a meeting?” she repeated, trying to piece together what she’d missed without admitting she hadn’t been paying attention. “Just you and me and Madeline Pratt? No. I need to bring you in to the office—you need to explain this to the team first—“

“There’s no time for that, and besides, if _she’s_ too high profile to pull this off herself, then _I_ certainly am too.” Reddington looked seriously at Liz. “And you’re the only member of the FBI that I trust at the moment.” He pursed his lips suddenly, and rolled his eyes. “Well, and Aram, but we both know that if we sent that poor fellow undercover into the secure wing of the Syrian embrassy to steal something he’d bumble his way into an international incident in all of sixty seconds.”

_He wanted her to steal the effigy from inside the Syrian embassy?_ Liz vowed to pay more attention during his monologues from now on.

“I need you to brief the team,” Liz insisted.

Reddington looked up as Dembe entered the room and paused just inside the doorway to announce cryptically, “The papers. They’re finished. We’ve got something.” Reddington nodded, and Dembe withdrew.

“Well, it looks like you’re going to have to pass on all of this information yourself. Another matter has just come up that demands my attention for the next few hours.” Reddington pushed off from his position against the table, and held an arm out toward the door, indicating it was time for Liz to leave, too.

“Cooper’s going to want to know—“

Reddington interrupted her. “I am not setting foot in the Post Office again until I am satisfied the mole has been found, Agent Keen,” he said sternly.

Liz remained in her seat, still refusing to stand. She looked up at Red for a long moment before giving in and rising to her feet. “You call her Maddie,” she said pointedly.

“Yes, because it bothers her,” Reddington replied lightly, again raising his arm to usher Liz out of the room. “After you, Agent Keen.”

…:::…

Liz described the basics to Cooper, who voiced his vehement dislike of the entire situation. The two spent the better part of ten minutes arguing about the dangers of letting Liz loose on foreign soil to steal a cultural antique. Without back-up. Cooper made it clear that if she were to do this and something went wrong, the FBI would not be able to protect her.

“I can do this,” Liz said firmly, looking Cooper in the eye.

“You’re an analyst. A profiler,” Cooper replied half-heartedly, realizing he’d already lost.

“Yes. And _I can do this_ ,” Liz repeated.

Cooper sighed. “Alright.” Liz rose and turned toward the door. “Agent Keen?” Cooper stopped her before she left. “Send Agent Malik in, please.”

“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t think she’s in yet. Aram and Ressler both said they hadn’t seen her today,” Liz replied before she excused herself.

…:::... 

As it turned out, Meera was not at work yet due to detainment by Reddington and his team, who had picked her up shortly after Liz had left Reddington’s safe house that morning. After several hours with one of his best interrogators, who insisted she was clean, Reddington finally entered the room where she was being held and sat down in a chair across from her.

“Let’s talk.”

“Already did,” Meera replied shortly.

“Yes, but now that you’ve been vetted by Mr. Brimley I’m more inclined to listen.” Reddington paused, offering the chance to speak, but the woman in front of him remained silent, so he continued instead. “To get into the blacksite so quickly, Garrick had to have the site layout in advance. Which you gave to him.”

“No.”

“I have an RFP we recovered and restored from the trash of a government contractor, signed by Meera Malik. You leaked classified data in the name of improving security.”

“No. I was authorized to start the bidding process,” she replied evenly.

“Authorized by whom?” No response. “ _Authorized by whom_ , Agent Malik? Someone on the inside betrayed both of us. Colleagues of yours were killed. We both want the same thing. Give me the name of who authorized this.”

Meera stared at Reddington for a long moment, weighing her options. “Diane Fowler,” she said finally.

…:::…

Late that afternoon, Reddington had picked Liz up and with Dembe they’d driven to a large, lavish home to meet Madeline Pratt. Liz wondered if this house, like Reddington’s current residence, was ‘borrowed’ from someone else, or whether it was actually hers. She didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask.

“I need to know about you; how you respond under pressure.” Madeline eyed Liz with a calculating look. “This is an embassy. Security, cameras, armed guards everywhere. One mistake, and you go to prison.”

“Nicole here is as calm as a Hindu cow,” Reddington interjected from across the room. “Tell her that story,” he suggested, turning his gaze to Liz. “Tell her about Frank.”

“Who’s Frank?” Madeline asked, immediately curious.

Liz made a mental note to exact revenge on Red at some point when an opportunity presented itself. He could have warned her she’d be auditioning with stories of her imaginary exploits. “Big, blonde, private security. He was the one who… introduced me to Red.” Liz shot Reddington a steady look before continuing. “Not that he was aware he was doing anything of the sort at the time.”

“I don’t understand,” Madeline said, her eyes narrowed.

Liz shrugged. “I’d heard about Raymond Reddington. I wanted to work with him. There was a particular job… I was having a problem with a guy named Tom, and I thought Red could help me. But you know how he is, with his security…” Liz stopped to turn in her chair and shoot a disapproving look at Dembe, who was waiting silently and patiently in the corner of the room. “It’s impossible to get anywhere near him most of the time. So this particular night he had Frank with him…” Liz trailed off.

“What did you—?”

“I seduced him. You know how it is—you hitch your skirt a little too high, smudge your eyeliner, and unbutton two extra buttons on your shirt… if you’re wearing the right bra, suddenly you look the part. While Red was in the back having—“ Liz waved one hand dismissively, “—whatever meeting he was having… Frank and I had several drinks. I pretended to chase each shot with a sip of beer, but was really just using the empty beer bottle to spit the hard alcohol back into. Meanwhile I’d been slipping something into each one of his shots. After about twenty minutes, I got Frank into the alley outside the tavern… he pushed me up against the side of the building…” Liz paused for dramatic effect. “…and one right hook dropped him like a sack of potatoes.”

“Where was Red during all of this?” Madeline asked.

“I had just enough time to make myself look a bit more presentable and break into his car by the time he came back out to the street, searching for Frank. I pulled up and offered him a ride in his own car.”

“What happened to Frank?”

Liz turned to look pointedly at Dembe, then back at Madeline, her eyebrows raised as if to say, _‘Frank obviously doesn’t work for him anymore.’_

Madeline gave Liz a cautious look. “And Tom? Did Red help you solve that… problem?”

Liz sighed, worried that she wouldn’t be able to keep up the smoothness of her lies. She rolled her eyes and stood. “I didn’t come here to audition,” she said, flinging her sour attitude in Reddington’s direction, as if she were irritated that he’d misrepresented the meeting and the potential job. She spun on her heels and headed toward the door.

“Wait. The job. It’s yours.” Madeline stood, and Reddington fought to keep from smiling. Desperate people on a short timetable were so easy to manipulate.

“I don’t want the job.” Liz turned briefly and tossed a cell phone at Madeline. “Call someone who does.”

“How did you get my phone—? Wait—what if I paid you double?”

Without responding, Liz slowly walked back into view around the edge of the doorway, a small smile playing on her lips.

Reddington clapped his hands in delight. “See, this is what I love about the two of you. Headstrong, yet vulnerable. Confident, but cautious. I think you’re going to get along _great_.”

…:::…

After running through the details of how Liz was going to access the secure wing once she’d gotten into the embassy, Liz was given the extra task of lifting and cloning a badge from an embassy official who could always be counted on to take a coffee break at the food truck outside the building at three in the afternoon. The schedule for the following day and the tech were reviewed at length, and Liz and Reddington left just as it was getting dark. Dembe dropped Liz off back at the Post Office where she’d left her car.

Once the backseat door had thumped closed behind her and her shadow disappeared into the parking structure, Dembe looked at Reddington in the rearview mirror. “Back to the house?” he asked.

“No. We have another stop first.”

…:::…

Reddington was waiting in Diane Fowler’s living room when she returned from work. She dropped her purse and keys on the console table on the far side of the room and advanced halfway toward Reddington, stopping short to ask sharply, “What the _hell_ are you doing in my house?”

“I know, Diane.” Reddington folded the newspaper he’d been reading in his lap, and revealed the gun he had in one hand. He trained it at the woman in front of him.

“You know _what_?”

“You signed a directive ordering a mandatory security upgrade at the Post Office. It’s how you got the blueprints into enemy hands. You’re the dirty rat, Diane. Sit your ass down.” He waved his gun vaguely in the direction of an armchair across from his.

Diane took a seat, sneering at Reddington. “You stupid son of a bitch. I signed that directive for your protection.”

Reddington chuckled, shaking his head, and Diane continued, her voice hardening at the disrespect she was shown. “And if you think Fitch or any of his people are going to let you get away with this, you’re more arrogant than I thought. We came into the Post Office to make a point. If you come after me—if you so much as lay a finger on me—“

“You talk too much,” Reddington interrupted, squeezing the trigger once.

The woman across from him jolted back in her chair, a look of disbelief on her face. “You can’t _shoot_ me!” she exclaimed haughtily, which Reddington found more than a touch amusing, since he already had.

“Why not? You’re not one of the good guys. And as of today, you’re utterly useless to the bad guys. Fitch and I have an agreement. He goes about his business. I go about mine. You and I don’t have an agreement.”

“I know the truth, Red…” Diane gasped. “About that night… about what happened to your family… Do you want to know the truth?”

Reddington’s smug expression slid slowly from his face. He stared at the older woman, desperately trying to resist the temptation before him. “ _More than anything in the world_ ,” he admitted quietly. “But if you know the truth, Diane, then somebody else does, too. And I’m beginning to suspect I’ve found someone who—if she doesn’t know already—might be a great help in tracking down whoever else _does_. Which means I have no further use for you.”

...:::…

TBC.


	14. Madeline Pratt Part 2

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: This chapter got HUGE. Mostly because I needed basic stuff to happen, and I was COMPLETELY UNWILLING to give up any opportunity to write extra stuff with flirtatious Red and jealous Liz. And yes, there are a few scenes that are completely unchanged from canon storyline, because honestly this is one of my very favorite episodes, and YOU CANNOT IMPROVE UPON CAMPOLONGO'S PERFECTION. So when stuff was already perfect, and still fit into my adjusted version of events, they stayed that way. So this got HUGE and became two parts. This also squares us up with my chapters matching the episode numbers. Not that I think it'll stay that way for long…?

…:::…

Chapter 14: Madeline Pratt Part 2

…:::…

The shower was hotter than she usually liked it, but Liz stood under the spray anyway, finding a strange satisfaction in the slight discomfort. The steam filled the bathroom while she took stock of the situation.

Career-wise, she was an FBI agent, working with a notorious international criminal, and that night she'd be aiding him and one of his colleagues in stealing a valuable artifact from a foreign embassy. She'd broken several laws for this man already, and tonight she was sure she'd end up breaking a few more.

Personally, she was a married woman who—mentally—had already divorced her husband, and couldn't stop thinking about the way Raymond Reddington's mouth moved when he talked.

And—just to cover everything, as long as she was being honest with herself—if she went back a few years, she was technically a US citizen, named Elizabeth Keen… but only because Sam had known the right people in order to falsify documentation and create a legitimate alias for her when she'd come to the United States. She was angry that her husband had lied to her, and had worked his way into her life using a fake name and supplying her with a completely fabricated background for himself. But she couldn't say what she'd done was really any different.

Her life was a hot mess.

Hence the appropriate temperature of the water.

"Hey, what're you doing in here? Liz? You've been in the shower for a half hour. Are you not going in to work today?" Tom's voice floated into the shower from where he stood in the doorway.

"No—I mean, yes, I am. Going in to work." Liz fumbled to turn off the water, kicking herself for letting the time get away from her so badly. She grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower quickly. Tom followed her out into the bedroom.

"Hey, you know, I was thinking about it, and… I don't want to fight with you. But that seems like all we've been doing lately. I'm sorry I said what I did the other day… when we found out Brian and Katie are pregnant again?" Tom shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching Liz as she pulled clothes from the closet. "It's just hard. Especially when you seem to be dragging your heels about starting up the adoption process again."

"Tom, I'm sorry, but I lost track of time this morning, and I'm running late…" Liz tossed a pair of shoes at the foot of the bed and crossed to her dresser for socks. "I don't have time to start the baby talk agai—"

"No, no, that's not what I—" Tom stopped, and stood up, blocking Liz's path through the room. He stilled her movements with his hands on her shoulders, and drew her in for a hug. "I don't want to talk about it if it's going to make you uncomfortable or angry. I don't want to fight. Let's just… strip away all the other stuff and just get back to _us_ , you know? I've got this teacher conference in Orlando this weekend, and I was thinking you should come with me. Just sunshine and beaches and… get away from all this." Tom ran his hands down Liz's back in a way she used to find comforting. "Hmm?"

"Um, Orlando's landlocked," Liz replied before she'd thought about the quality of her answer. "I'm pretty sure there aren't any beaches—"

Tom sighed and dropped his hands. He stepped away from her, exasperated, and put his hands on his hips. "Well, I guess this is why I don't teach geography. I just think we could use a vacation, Liz. Just you and me?" Tom said, an entreating tone in his voice. When Liz said nothing, he turned to leave. "Okay. Just… do me a favor? And think about it?"

…:::…

The following day, the cloning of the access badge went off without a hitch, and the badge was back on the unsuspecting embassy official before he made it back into the building. Aram, Ressler, Meera, and Liz all returned to the Post Office for a final briefing before Liz split off on her unofficially sanctioned mission to the embassy.

Liz was surprised to find Reddington and Dembe already at the black site when they arrived. The pair had obviously just gotten there themselves, because Cooper was walking toward the whole group with purpose. "Ressler, Malik, Keen—and _you_ —" he glared at Reddington, "—in my office. _Now_."

As soon as the door was shut, Cooper stepped up to Reddington. "Diane Fowler. Where is she?"

"I have no idea," Reddington said smoothly. He enjoyed plausible deniability, and after calling Mr. Kaplan the night before, he could honestly say he didn't know the location of Diane Fowler's body at this time.

"You expect me to believe that you walk in here after she vanishes and there's no connection?"

"Has Diane gone missing?" Reddington asked innocently.

Liz could tell Red had been involved. He was only this snarky when he knew he'd won already, and there was nothing anyone could do to reverse the outcome. Her eyes darted to Ressler, whose face bore his usual slightly constipated expression, and then to Meera, whose poker face was legendary.

"Hmm." Reddington continued. "Perhaps you should ask Agent Malik. She works for the woman, doesn't she?"

Liz looked back at Meera as the other woman denied having had recent contact. While Meera's expression gave nothing away, Reddington's choice to point the finger at her made Liz believe that the two of them had worked together on this, she knew much more than she was volunteering, and he was enjoying needling her about it.

"You made it clear. You thought we had a mole. And you wouldn't set foot inside this facility until that mole was captured or dead." Cooper's voice was quiet and serious. He stepped closer to Reddington, attempting to use the considerable height difference in his favor.

Reddington, accustomed to being shorter than the bodyguards of those he dealt with, had ceased to find height intimidating years ago, and chose to reply with a derisive, "Who chose this paneling?" as he studied the dark wood of Cooper's office walls.

"You told Agent Keen that you wouldn't come in until the mole had been caught," Cooper repeated.

Reddington cut his eyes to Liz, who clenched her teeth as she held his gaze. She suddenly felt like she'd tattled on a friend to the principle.

"You said our house wasn't clean," Cooper continued. "Is it?"

"I suppose you'll have to ask Diane Fowler… when you find her," Reddington replied. Liz breathed out and looked at the floor. She mentally crossed her fingers that Cooper wouldn't do something drastic in response to Reddington thumbing his nose at him like this.

"When we find out what's happened to her—and we will find out—if you had anything to do with it, you're gonna spend the rest of your life in a box. Understood?"

Reddington smiled blandly up at the man in front of him and stepped pointedly to one side, moving around him toward Liz. "I'd like to review a few more details about tonight, if you wouldn't mind, Agent Keen. And we need to get you ready for this party, now, don't we?" Reddington took Liz's hand and wound it under his arm, tilting his head toward her conspiratorially as he steered her toward the door, without so much as a ' _goodbye'_ or even a backward glance at Cooper. "You smell nice," he said, still within earshot as they crossed the threshold out into the hallway. "Something new?"

After a few yards, Liz shook her head in admonishment, but didn't attempt to extricate her hand from the crook of his elbow. "You shouldn't be so blatant about things like murder. Cooper's furious."

Reddington gave a sharp laugh. "Who said anything about murder? I just thought an old woman was missing," he said evasively.

"Red—"

"And Cooper will mellow right out when we hand over the contents of the effigy to him," Reddington continued.

"You shouldn't have pointed your finger so obviously at Meera, either," Liz interrupted, not finished with her scolding.

Red stopped in the hall and turned to face Liz, dropping her hand. She immediately regretted pushing him. "You don't know the route I took and things I learned while hunting your mole," he said seriously. "If you did, you might not be so quick to defend your colleague."

"Then tell me what you found out," Liz shot back.

"Tit for tat, Agent Keen. I've asked several times for information regarding Brussels."

Liz anxiously glanced down the hallway, checking for anyone who might over hear them. She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't bring that up while I'm at work," she hissed. She took a step back from Reddington, looking disappointed that he was willing to risk her exposure like that. "And I did it because I owed you a debt," she said with quiet frustration, turning to stride quickly away from him, leaving him in the hall alone.

…:::…

Hours later, as Liz was getting dressed, she wished she'd chosen a different dress. She had to stop by Reddington's safe house before going to the embassy, as Dembe was acting as her chauffeur that night, and she knew she'd see Red. A black dress. Or dark blue. Even an emerald green would be less ostentatious than the bright red of the gown she was currently wearing as she gave herself one last check in the mirror before heading out.

When attempting a clandestine operation with no back up, one should probably wear something that doesn't call attention to oneself. Liz sighed. Not to mention the fact that she was basically wearing his name. She might as well make a t-shirt with his face screen printed on the front of it.

Shaking that last hyperbolic thought from her head, she locked the front door behind her and walked to her car. Surely he was used to his nickname being a color? He couldn't possibly go through life trying to read meaning into every appearance of the color red on a daily basis? That would be exhausting, not to mention fruitless, as the vast majority of times it would be a complete coincidence.

Liz was still ruminating on the shade of her gown and what that particular choice said about her subconscious when she was led into a sitting room by Dembe and told to wait there.

"We have a problem." Reddington's raised voice startled her as it carried into the room from somewhere upstairs. "I had my people run background on the guest list for tonight's event. The file's on the ottoman if you'd like to look, but the long and the short of it is that Rasil Kalif—a notorious playboy and cultural attaché for the Syrian embassy—will be in attendance tonight. Apparently Madeline has been seeing him for some time."

If a jealous Red was looking for sympathy because Madeline had a date to tonight's event that wasn't him, Liz mentally vowed she'd stab him with something. "Why is that a problem?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Cultural attaché is a cover. Truth is he's the one who hired Maddie to steal the effigy. And right about now, she's walking into the embassy as his date."

Liz frowned at her reflection in a large, ornate mirror on the wall above the fireplace. "What? You said her profile was too high and she wasn't going?"

"Well, she is."

"So she hired us as a distraction—to serve as the patsy while she steals it herself?" Liz saw something move in the mirror, and turned to see who was behind her.

Reddington. In a tux.

One more thing she didn't need right now.

"Wow," he said, his eyes sweeping her up and down. "And I like your clutch."

Liz swallowed. Even if Reddington ignored every other instance of the color red in his day to day life, she suddenly felt like he saw right through her choice in evening wear tonight. He'd avoided any comment on her dress, hair, or physical form and instead chose to single out her least cohesive and most impersonal accessory. Based on his face as he looked at her a moment ago, he obviously had opinions about the way she looked, but was limiting his comments for professional reasons.

Words failed her when it occurred to her that she should compliment him back, and instead she asked, confused, "What are you wearing?"

"A tuxedo," he answered glibly. "I'm your plus one."

Liz shook her head and took a few steps forward. "You can't get into that embassy," she warned, worried that if he tried, tonight would be the last she ever saw of him.

"Oh yes, I can. Some of my best friends are Syrian."

"You act like this is a joke. Red, you were the one who explained to me—at length—the security measures in place over the embassy. I'm going onto foreign soil to steal a priceless artifact with no backup."

"You have me." Reddington smiled and closed the distance between them to stand in front of her. "Apparently in the past I did something which warranted you saving my life as repayment. Let's just say I like being owed by resourceful people like you, and maybe tonight I'll be able to put a little red back in your ledger where it pertains to me."

…:::…

Liz wished she could take the time to enjoy the second time in less than twelve hours that she was able to take Reddington's arm. But as they exited the car and made their way through security at the embassy, her attention was on her surroundings. She spotted Madeline across the dance floor as they descended the staircase into the main ballroom. "There she is. Think she beat us to it?" she murmured under her breath.

"Stay on task," Reddington gently reminded her.

"And I meant to tell you in the car… if anyone hears you call me Agent Keen tonight, alarm bells are going to sound. So now you _have_ to switch to my first name."

Reddington nodded seriously. "Would that be your birth name, the one you go by now, the one I gave to Maddie as your alias, or the _other_ alias she put on the event guest list for you tonight?"

Liz opened her mouth to retort, but Red simply raised his eyebrows as a waltz began to play, and asked, "Shall we?" Without waiting for her response, he swept her gracefully onto the floor and began moving them steadily down the length of the room. "We have three minutes to access the security door." He nodded slightly in the direction of the door, over Liz's shoulder. "And I know this must be difficult for you… but we can't both lead."

Reddington's mouth quirked up in a smile, which Liz suddenly found herself relaxed enough to return. "You could have warned me that I'd have to sing for my supper yesterday in the meeting with Madeline," she chided gently. "Some advanced notice that I'd need a story would have been nice."

"I thought you did a _marvelous_ job," Reddington said. "You painted a very vivid picture." He smiled, and adjusted their direction toward the door again. "Made me quite sad none of it was true, actually."

Liz drew in a breath, unsure how to respond, and Reddington's smile grew slightly. His eyes cut to his left briefly, and he murmured, "Twenty feet behind you, your five o'clock. Here's your distraction; good luck." And with that, he spun her back into a waiter with a tray full of drinks, which crashed to the floor with a spectacular amount of noise, splashing the contents down the dress of an unsuspecting nearby victim. Liz ducked quickly behind a pillar and made her way to the security door, palming the access card out of her purse as she walked, and barely stopping as she swiped open the door and snuck through it.

Reddington backed away immediately, a slight frown on his face, wiping at nonexistent drops of liquid on his tuxedo jacket, as if he'd been one of the unfortunate souls on the receiving end of the waiter's clumsiness. He quietly made his way through the crowd until he found Madeline.

On the way to the embassy, Reddington and Liz had discussed the fact that there was a good chance that they were being set up tonight, a set of patsies to be blamed for the disappearance of the effigy. Both had agreed, however, to continue with the plan as Maddie had outlined it, hoping at best that they were wrong about her plans, and at worst hoping to outwit her on the ground, since there would be two of them and only one of her.

"Mind if I cut in?" Reddington asked, stealing Madeline away from her dance partner and into his arms without waiting for permission. "What are you doing here, Madeline?" he asked, holding her significantly closer than he'd held Liz a moment before.

Madeline smirked at him. "What are _you_ doing here, Red?" she responded.

"I came to watch you." Reddington spun her out and held her at arms length, taking a moment to look her up and down.

As expected, Madeline basked in the adoration and took the opportunity to practically strut around him, trailing one hand across the back of his shoulders as she went. "Voyeurism, Red? I didn't know you were into that."

"One of the things that has made me so successful in my line of work over the years is that I dabble in _just about everything_." Reddington wound her back into his arms, tilting his head as if considering something. "My plane is fifteen minutes from here. We could be in Tegucigalpa by breakfast, and pick up right where we left off two nights ago."

"The girl. Tell me more about her." Madeline moved one hand up to lightly stroke the back of his neck.

Reddington smiled. She was either jealous, or fishing for information regarding tonight's operation. He was pleased either way. "What would you like to know?"

"Why did you pick her?"

With a low chuckle, Reddington responded, "Weren't you listening to her story, Maddie? _She_ picked _me_."

"And why did she pick you?" Madeline pressed.

Reddington spun her out again before replying, "Fate."

"She's a little young for you." The older woman gave her opinion while still at arms length, and Reddington made a show of looking slightly hurt at the implication that he was, by comparison, old.

"You think?" he asked, pulling her back in. He spun her around again, so he was pressed against her back, her arms held crossed in front of her.

"Last summer," she murmured, turning her head to the left to speak over her shoulder, "what happened in Florence? What happened to you?"

Reddington dropped his mouth to her shoulder and brushed his lips along her skin, saying nothing.

"You left me alone," Madeline pressed, her voice more insistent, despite her unwavering smug smile. "I deserve an explanation."

"I was serious about Tegucigalpa," Reddington's voice was low and deep in her ear, his face buried in her hair. "What do you think? _Right now_."

"What happened in Florence…?" Madeline drew out the words, barely louder than a whisper.

Suddenly, alarms began to sound, and Madeline was wrenched from Reddington's arms by Rasil, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Come! I need to get you to the safe room," he said, dragging her away. She threw a satisfied smile over her shoulder at Reddington.

…:::…

Liz had had no trouble getting down to the safe she'd been directed to, which made her nervous, and she'd had no trouble breaking into the safe, which served to double her suspicions. By the time she opened the empty safe and the alarms began to sound, she wasn't even surprised.

She was taken at gun point to a large room in the basement with concrete walls, an unfinished ceiling, and a drain in the middle of a tiled floor. Drains were never a good sign, since they were usually there to provide a quick way to hose down blood or other body fluids if the detainee's questioning involved torture.

She'd been handcuffed, and planted roughly in a chair. A single guard with an automatic weapon stayed with her.

After less than five minutes, Reddington walked through the door like he owned the place. He headed straight for Liz.

"There you are—what the _hell_ happened to you?! You just leave me stranded with that _awful Algerian_?! He's been hitting on me for twenty minutes!"

"Sir—" The armed guard took a single step forward, his grip tightening on his gun. "—this is a secure area."

"Well, not secure enough if you ask me, sister. You know what? Why don't you ask Rasil? We wouldn't even _be here_ if it weren't for that troublemaker. Always an agenda with him. Cultural attaché—culture _my ass_." He took another step forward, continuing to advance on the guard as he gestured emphatically at Liz. "The things I do for this one. Gallivanting around the globe for her little assignations with _you-know-hmm-hmm_ ; carrying her furs and bikinis—as if I wouldn't rather be back in Duchess County with my shelties." Reddington leaned to the side, bringing his face down level with Liz's, whose own face was a helpless mix of confusion, tension, and admiration. She searched his face for a signal, some clue as to what he wanted her to do. Was she supposed to agree? Chime in? Argue with him? "Hey, don't take anything for granted," he continued, seemingly without taking a breath. "Everything you have was bought and paid for by your boyfriend!" He straightened, and raised his eyebrows at the guard. "Do you have any idea whose horn this tramp is blowing? Let's just say it starts with Bashar and ends with Assad, gassing you faster than a Sunni. So, let's get her _out_ of the hot seat and into a limo—good God! Crumbs up!"

"What?" the guard asked, off-balance and confused.

"Your _cummerbund_! Pleats up! You look like Bob Yoshimura in eighth grade swing choir. _It's upside down_!"

Liz stood abruptly as the guard looked down at his clothing, angling in front of him quickly and catching his jaw with a powerful right hook. As the guard went down, Liz took a step back, curling her right hand in to her midsection and doubling over momentarily, lamenting through gritted teeth, " _God_ , that hurts!"

She straightened up quickly, still shaking her right hand, her handcuffs dangling from that wrist. She looked at Reddington with a grimace, and nodded down at the unconscious guard. "What?" she asked, as he stared at her in surprise. "I'd already picked my left cuff, but the right will go a whole lot faster if you can grab the key out of his jacket pocket." Reddington moved to do as requested, kneeling down over the man sprawled on the floor. "Thanks for the distraction, but… what the hell _was_ that?"

Reddington grunted as he stood, the keys in hand. Liz held out her wrist and Reddington freed her of the other handcuff. "I don't know," he admitted, looking somewhat flummoxed himself. "It just felt so right in the moment…"

"Madeline's gone?" Liz assumed.

"And the effigy with her," Reddington confirmed, ushering her toward the door with a hand on the small of her back.

…:::…

Silence reigned in the car as Dembe drove Liz back to the office for a debriefing. She had no idea how she was going to get home, since her car was currently parked at Reddington's safe house, but she figured she'd work something out later.

They pulled up in front of the building, and Liz climbed out of the car. Before she shut the door behind her, she leaned down to look across the back seat at Reddington.

"I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier," she said, giving him a hint of a smile. "But… you wear the hell out of a tux."

Reddington inclined his head toward her, accepting the compliment. "Good night, Agent Keen."

Liz's smile grew, and she insisted softly, "Liz," before shutting the door and heading inside.

…:::…

After reading Liz the riot act for not bringing Reddington in with her—"For all we know, he set this whole thing up so he could get the locations of the bombs, and God only know who he might sell them to!" he'd bellowed—Cooper had allowed her five minutes to change into the spare clothes she kept in her desk. She felt immeasurably more comfortable once she was out of her dress.

"The Syrians know the safe was opened as a distraction, and they're still trying to account for exactly who was in that panic room with the effigy. They're attributing the entire heist to Reddington." Cooper glared at Liz. "You were _used_ , Agent Keen. If not by Reddington, then at the very least by Pratt. I hope you remember this fiasco the next time you get it into your head that you and Reddington are a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. _No more field ops_." Cooper stormed off in the direction of his office, calling back over his shoulder, "Agent Malik, in my office."

Meera followed Cooper, and Ressler sat down in an empty chair at a neighboring desk. "Anything you need tonight?" he offered stiffly but kindly, obviously attempting damage control after Cooper's scolding.

Liz sighed, and looked over her work station. "Um… yeah, actually. A ride home? My car is… not here."

Ressler nodded. "How much time do you need?"

"I'm ready when you are. This paperwork can wait until tomorrow," Liz said.

Five minutes later, as they were boarding the elevator, Liz's cell rang.

"Hey—you still at work?" Tom asked.

"Yes, but I'm almost—"

"Yeah, that's what I figured." He sighed. "I didn't even bother to buy you a ticket to Orlando, Liz. I asked you to think about it, but I knew you wouldn't. And there's nothing I can do about it, because your job has _now become our life_."

Anger flared in Liz's chest, and she tried to keep her voice steady, aware that Ressler could hear the entire conversation in the small elevator. "What do you want me to say?" she asked, trying not to grit her teeth in frustration.

"You don't have to say anything. I'm already at the airport. I'm flying out tonight."

"You're already at the—what if I'd said I could go? You just _assumed_ —?" Liz turned away from Ressler, her voice rising.

"Yeah, because it's a pretty safe bet that you're going to stand me up when we make plans these days, Liz. So no, I'm not gonna wait on you. I think some time apart might actually be the best thing for us."

" _Tom_ —" Liz broke off when she heard the line go dead, and she closed her eyes, sighing in frustration as she slid the phone back into her pocket.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Ressler volunteered with gentle sarcasm, "Want me to rough him up for you?"

Liz gave a dejected laugh. "No, thanks, I can fight my own battles. If anyone's going to rough him up, it's gonna be me."

Ressler raised his eyebrows. "Spousal abuse?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow in mock disapproval.

"Is that any better than the assault and battery you just offered?" Liz responded as she stepped off the elevator into the parking garage, the humor fading from her voice.

This needed to be over.

...:::...

Reddington caught up to Madeline on the street the next morning, falling into step with her and linking her arm with his as he asked, as if already in the middle of a conversation, "Tell me about the coordinates."

"What coordinates?" she asked innocently.

"Stop it," he chided. "I had a little talk with Rasil. We had a few laughs, compared a few notes about you. He told me about that _delightful_ thing you do with a trouser belt, which was a bit hurtful, since I was pretty sure that was _our_ thing…" Reddington paused before demanding, his voice deeper and somehow colder, "The coordinates."

"It's over. You were played. Go home," Madeline replied haughtily, then stopped walking to look at Reddington directly. "You really want to know why I brought you into this? Florence. Because you didn't show. Florence was our everything, our way out, a fresh start. But to you, it's all just a job. _Tegucigalpa_?" she sneered. " _Honestly_? If I was interested in having an affair, I'd find a man with _hair_."

Reddington fought the urge to tense up, knowing what was coming. Really, if he was going to volunteer to be tasered, he shouldn't have to put up with insults about his receding hairline as well. He just didn't feel that was fair, in the grand scheme of things.

…:::…

Reddington removed his jacket, hat, and his tie, which probably cost more than Agent Keen's monthly mortgage, he thought idly. After being prepped in a nearby room, smudged with dirt and sprayed with something that looked just like a sheen of sweat, Reddington allowed himself to be dragged into the area where Madeline was being held, and dumped unceremoniously on the floor. He coughed, and winced as he pushed himself up to a sitting position and sagged against the wall. He'd always been a decent actor, but this particular performance, he decided, was going to be easy. He closed his eyes as Madeline hissed his name through the slats between their cells to get his attention, and tried to remember exactly how he'd felt, suspended from the ceiling and injected with that horrendous cocktail of drugs Anslo Garrick had decided was appropriate payback for being shot in the head at close range.

Reddington winced again, and took a shuddering breath.

Madeline sighed, defeated. "There's nothing I can give them at this point," she said with a shrug. "They're not getting the effigy back. It's gone. I've already sold it to the Russians."

The other half of this performance—the verbal portion—was also, unfortunately, going to be easy. The best lies were always 90% truth, after all. "I ran out of gas," Reddington said, his voice hollow.

The non sequitur gave Madeline pause, and she turned her head to peer at him through the horizontal slats between them. "What?" she asked.

"I was…so excited to get home I didn't even bother to look. My head was just…" Reddington stopped, remembering how hard it had been to even swallow, how his throat had burned as if Anslo had forced him to eat hot coals. Reddington's Adams apple bobbed, and he licked his lips, shaking his head. "I ran out of gas," he repeated, staring into the corner of his cell.

Madeline sighed, not in the mood for his eccentricities. "What are you talking about?"

"It was Christmas Eve. I… pulled off to the side of the road." Reddington let his voice drop into a comfortable register, enjoying the memory of how still and peaceful it had been that evening in the snow. Despite everything else that had happened on December 24th, 1990, he could still remember and appreciate the beauty of the snowfall that night. "Seemed like it'd been snowing for days," he continued. "No traffic. No cars to come help. Just me and a car full of gifts." His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper as he did the math. "It was… more than twenty years ago."

Reddington shifted slightly against the wall, frowning. He could tell he had Madeline's attention at this point. He steadfastly maintained his line of sight on the floor of his cell, his eyes downcast, but he could feel her watching him intently. "I must have walked four miles, five maybe. It was so still. Just cold and white. The whole time, all I could think about was them in our house." He adjusted his voice, allowing fond memories of dinners he _hadn't_ missed to creep in and color his tone with real affection and nostalgia. "The warm light in the windows, the smoke from the chimney."

Reddington paused, picturing blonde curls and a dazzling smile sitting on the piano bench in their living room, feet dangling in the air as she swung her little legs that didn't even come close to reaching the pedals yet. "The sound of my daughter at the piano," he managed. His heart had started to hammer in his chest, and he clamped down on a flash of Diane Fowler, bleeding in her own living room, trying to barter for his mercy with information. "The smell of the tree and the fire, oyster stew on the stove." Reddington pushed forward, concentrating on his story. "I was so upset to think that I'd ruined Christmas for them, being late, leaving the gifts in the car. But the closer I got, the more I realized how… _funny_ the whole thing was, how much they'd love the story, daddy running out of gas—how every Christmas they'd get such _joy_ from telling that story at my expense." He allowed himself a brief, miserable smile, remembering the wonderful times he'd spent with his wife and daughter, before his traitorous mind inevitably skipped to the other women in other places around the world. His stomach twisted, the infidelities settling heavy in his gut. Just as well. His story was going to turn dark right about now anyway. Reddington didn't bother to check his emotions, and allowed his self-loathing and heartache to show on his face. No one was around to witness this but Madeline, and he would be sure to smirk enough later that she'd doubt everything he was saying right now.

"And then, finally… I got there. I walked…" Reddington's chest stung, and he stopped talking, trying to get control of his voice. He winced, and swallowed, and thought bitterly that Anslo Garrick hadn't needed the drugs. The same effect could have been obtained just by forcing him to dwell on events that occurred more than two decades ago. He dropped his head, cleared his throat, and continued, his voice steadier. "I walked through the door. And there was… just… blood. All I saw was blood… All there was was blood." Unbidden, a memory flashed before Reddington's eyes, the tableau of Dembe, seen through the glass splattered by Luli's blood in the box at the Post Office, his own hands covered in Ressler's blood, flat against the glass as he tried to—impossibly—prepare himself to witness another friend's death. He had so much blood on his hands.

"I can…" Reddington broke off, trying to concentrate on the memories of his daughter. His jaw worked, a sour tang in his mouth, as if he could taste the blood he had described. Reddington fought to maintain his train of thought, his eyes closed in an attempt to prevent actual tears. Tears weren't necessary, and would be difficult to play off with the hired guards once he was dragged from the cell, moments from now. "I can still…smell the nape of her neck…" His heart beat faster, almost painfully in his chest. He wasn't having to lie. Not at this point in the story. "Feel her little… fingers on my cheek… her whisper in my ear…"

Enough. With his eyes closed, he couldn't see Madeline's expression, but if he didn't have her by now, continuing this emotional masochism for another five, ten, thirty minutes wasn't going to change anything. Reddington let out another, final, shuddering breath, and repositioned his head against the wall, blinking his eyes open to clear the glassiness. He carefully put more power into his voice as he concluded somewhat despondently, "That's why I didn't show up in Florence. It's why I haven't shown up in a lot of places over the years."

Right on time, guards began unlocking the outer door to the room, approached his cell, and dragged him from it, roughly hauling him around the corner and out of sight while Madeline begged them to stop.

Reddington straightened up, and wiped at his face as he heard her finally shout from the other room, "I'll tell you what you want to know!"

…:::...

Ten minutes later, having been given access to a sink and a fresh shirt, Reddington replaced his tie and jacket, and walked calmly into view of the cells, accepting the handwritten coordinates of the nuclear bombs as well as the name and location of the particular Russian mobster in possession of the effigy itself, passed to the guard by Madeline. He thanked the guard, and kissed him on both cheeks, murmuring wishes for his continued health and happiness, as well as his family's. Dembe stepped into view and handed him his hat.

"Dembe, please call Agent Keen and tell her we have the location of the effigy," he requested politely. "Once they have it, offer them the location of the bombs in exchange for the statue." Dembe nodded and turned to leave, reaching for his phone.

"No…" Madeline said, the concern sliding from her face, replaced by a horrified mix of anger and fascination. "You son of a… Damn you, Reddington! _Damn you,_ Raymond! You let me out of here right now, you son of a bitch!" Madeline kicked ineffectually at the cell door as Reddington calmly walked up to the bars with a serene smile.

"Was it true?" she added, her voice quiet as she gave up on her useless show of anger. "That story about your family? Was any of it true?"

Reddington gave her his best smirk, hoping it was enough to shake her acceptance of his tale, and cast an ambiguous haze over the details he'd shared. "We should have gone to Tegucigalpa."

…:::…

TBC.

...:::...

So... None of this story has been too terribly angsty up until this point, and I hope I didn't get too carried away in this chapter, but... There was Reddington angst, and I just couldn't help myself. I had to expand on it. I had to dive in and swim in it until my fingers got all prune-y. Sorry for the mega-chapter! I got selfish. :/

Reviews are like bacon. (GOD, I love bacon.)


	15. The Judge and Mako Tanida

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: I apologize profusely. Most of this chapter is largely unchanged, and contains a lot of house-keeping and exposition. There was just no other way. Please don't throw things at me. But, on the plus side: I've managed to completely delete Audrey from the entire storyline. ;) And I promise, there's some good stuff in the back half of this chapter. I just beg your patience until then.

…:::…

Chapter 15: The Judge and Mako Tanida

…:::…

Reddington had had quite enough of the subtle knockings he'd had on his metaphorical door recently. Much like the impossible task of knowing exactly where an electron is (since the minute you hit it with a measuring device, you've moved it, and it's no longer there), Reddington prided himself on never remaining where he'd been found, so when they came looking for him, they'd find nothing but the location he _used to be_. He was able to recognize when vague inquiries were made about him, and steps were always taken afterward to either move, change the circumstances, or—if need be—silence the inquirer. If someone learned something about Reddington, by the time they tried to use that knowledge, he'd seen to it that the information was now obsolete.

But it was getting tiresome and repetitious, and he wanted it to stop.

Over the last three to four years the gentle pressure and testing of his defenses had begun to occur more often, and was increasingly more noticeable. It was why he'd made the final decision last summer to fly back to D.C. instead of meeting Madeline in Florence. Why he'd tentatively aligned himself with the FBI. He needed resources, and figuring out which of his contacts he could trust had become frustratingly difficult.

He'd managed to barter his services for several key pieces of information over the last six months, working with the FBI. Gina Zanetakos, Lucy Brooks, and Tom Keen all appeared to work for the same agency, but he still couldn't prove it, nor did he know what agency or group it was. All three had made inquiries or tried to position themselves to gain information about Reddington, and he didn't appreciate it.

The most recent piece of the puzzle he'd obtained was the fact that Lucy Brooks was _not_ dead—she'd done a very good job of faking her death in an attempt to elude him—but was alive and well and going by the name Jolene Parker. As previously promised, Reddington had shown Liz a picture of the woman, but after studying the photograph in the obituary for a long moment Liz had shaken her head and said she didn't look familiar.

So the next step was actually _finding_ Ms. Parker.

…:::…

"Good morning, Red," Liz's voice was a forced sort of cheerful on the phone.

"Just out of curiosity, which number am I on your speed dial?" Reddington asked.

"Seven," she replied promptly.

"Who's six?"

"Chinese take-out."

"That hurts, Agent Keen."

"'Liz'. I need your help. Have you heard of the Judge?" she asked, switching straight from banter to business.

"And which judge would this be?"

" _The_ Judge," Liz clarified. "The unofficial US prisoner's court of last resort. When your legal appeals have all been exhausted and there's no hope left, he's the person you turn to."

"Ah. Has something happened that makes you believe this is more than just a myth? I've always heard rumors, but no-one has ever proven—"

"Mark Hastings, US Attorney from Maryland. Twelve years ago he indicted the head of the Reynoso cartel. A week later, he went missing. The Bureau assumed it was a retribution killing, but two days ago he was found wandering on a road in Pennsylvania. Nobody knows where he's been, and he's too traumatized to speak. I believe he was held captive all this time."

"There can be no doubt in anyone's mind that the Reynoso cartel was guilty of every heinous thing they were ever accused of. Why would an entity that seeks to provide justice imprison the man who brought down a group of unethical thugs?"

"Because I think he was held captive due to a misstep he made on a _different_ case. Leonard Dibbs: sentenced to fourteen years for armed robbery, but at the time, Hastings covered up a witness that could have exonerated him. Dibbs served twelve years of his fourteen year sentence. Got out four months ago. Same number of days imprisoned as Hastings was missing. Exactly. Hastings took twelve years from Dibbs. The Judge evened the score."

"That's very impressive detective work, but I'm not sure what this has to do with _me_ ," Reddington said. " _I_ bring _you_ the blacklisters, not the other way around. And besides, you opened this conversation with a request for help. I've yet to hear the request?"

Liz swallowed. She really wasn't sure if she'd managed to rack up enough points where Reddington was concerned to be asking for this, but it had to be done. "Ressler and Meera tracked down one of the men who works with the Judge, funneling prisoner requests through a book depository in Virginia. They didn't find the guy, or any information on where the Judge is actually located, but it looks like the last case he took was one involving Alan Ray Rifkin. According to the charges, Rifkin, ex-army, and a few dozen Taliban fighters raided an Afghan village, killing dozens of civilians. He was tried in 2003 as an enemy combatant and sentenced to death, which is scheduled for tomorrow. The problem is that he claims his confession was beaten out of him by the Senior FBI Agent in Afghanistan at the time… Harold Cooper."

"There it is," Reddington said, finally understanding. "Your boss is next on the Judge's hit list, and you want me to… what? Stop it? I'm not a gum ball machine, Agent Keen, you can't just pull my lever every time you want a treat."

"I'm asking for your help in any way you might be able to provide it," Liz said, her tone slightly pleading. "Can we prove Cooper got a good confession? Can we stop the execution? Can we find the Judge? Because I'm afraid that if Rifkin is executed tomorrow… Cooper and Connelly might suddenly have massive targets on their backs."

" _Tom_ Connelly?" Reddington asked sharply. "He's involved with this?"

"Yes, why?"

"You didn't mention him before."

"He was the federal prosecutor on the case, and I have a witness who claims he was the one who ordered Cooper to beat Rifkin." Liz narrowed her eyes. "What do you know about him?"

"Have you spoken to Cooper about the accusations of a coerced confession?" Reddington asked, avoiding her question.

"No." Liz sighed. "And to be honest, I'm not looking forward to that conversation. Asking your boss if he played dirty cop and contributed to a man being put on Death Row… is a little awkward, to say the least."

Reddington mulled over his options momentarily. "There might be someone I can talk to," he said finally. "And be careful around Connelly," he added before hanging up.

…:::…

It took Liz an extra thirty minutes once she got to the office to screw up enough courage to climb the stairs to Cooper's office. She found the door partly open, and pushed in, hoping to get it over with quickly. Like ripping off a bandaid.

"We need to talk about Rifkin," she said as she pushed open the door, knocking lightly but not waiting to be asked in. "Sir, I need to know whether you—"

"What's going on?" An unexpected male voice in the back half of the room caused Liz to startle slightly and turn around in search of the second man she hadn't realized was there.

"Agent Keen, this is US Attorney Tom Connelly." Cooper's introduction came with a glare of barely contained admonishment.

"Harold's been telling me what a great agent you are," Connelly said, a smile spreading easily across his face. "Dog with a bone," he added, extending his hand to shake.

Liz remembered Reddington's final words of warning regarding Tom Connelly, and Liz shook his hand gingerly before cutting her eyes back to Cooper. "Sir, may we speak privately?" she asked. "About Rifkin?"

"Agent Keen, whatever you have to say to me, you can say to both of us," Cooper said, his patience obviously worn thin over the last few days due to the amorphous threat to his life.

Liz shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "I need to know what happened at the airport after you landed with Rifkin. Transfer orders were doctored, and there's a discrepancy in the timing. Two hours are unaccounted for in his transport logs, and I have a witness who says he heard _you_ —" Liz looked from Connelly to Cooper, "—order _you_ to beat a confession out of Rikfin." Liz stopped, trying to maintain a poker face while her mind screamed that she'd been too forward, and was likely about to lose her job. Maybe 'like ripping off a bandaid' hadn't been the best analogy to go in with.

"I did not railroad an innocent man," Cooper said heatedly, standing from his seat behind his desk.

"Did you beat him?" Liz asked evenly.

Cooper considered her for a long moment before replying, "Yes." He moved around his desk, coming to a stop between her and Connelly. "Agent Keen, Alan Ray Rifkin deserves the sentence he received for his crimes."

Connelly stepped forward, eyeing Liz with no small measure of curiosity. "What are you looking to do… halt his execution?" he asked. "He's being transferred as we speak. His day in court is over. He's exhausted his appeals. Once that happens, the Supreme Court is clear. Why he confessed or whether he's even guilty becomes irrelevant."

Liz did her best to mask her disgust. "Do you realize how insane that is? His innocence can't be considered?"

"Agent Keen—" Cooper said warningly.

"No, it's fine, I'm leaving," Liz said with more venom in her voice than she knew was appropriate when addressing those with the titles these men held. "I apologize if I've offended anyone. I'm merely trying to figure out why the Judge thinks this conviction was a bad one, and why he'd be targeting _you two_." She backed toward the door, adding acerbically, "I just figured if we can stop Rifkin's execution tomorrow, maybe we can stop _yours_ , too."

Liz made it to the bottom of the stairs before she let out the shaky breath she'd been holding.

…:::…

That evening, Liz stood in her kitchen, mulling over her options regarding Tom and their continued coexistence under the same roof. The team had hit a wall with the Rifkin case, and her brain needed a break, so she decided to work on a different puzzle for awhile.

Things had been even more strained since Tom came back from the conference in Orlando, and she could tell he was having a hard time managing his role as 'ignored husband'. He had tried being understanding, he had tried getting angry, he had tried guilt trips, and none of it had worked. Liz just kept ignoring him, and things had gotten frankly absurd.

Should she try to smooth things over and continue to keep him close? Was he more trouble and stress than he was worth?

She momentarily fantasized about knocking him out, tying him up, and just delivering him to Reddington in the trunk of their car. Force Red to deal with him. Wash her hands of the situation.

The chime of the doorbell shook Liz from her reverie, and she walked to the front door, glad for the distraction.

On her doorstep stood Lucy Brooks.

Jolene Parker.

The woman from the photograph Reddington had shown her.

Liz swallowed and forced a polite smile onto her face. "Can I help you?" she asked, hoping her expression was one of calm expectation, and not fury and alarm. She shifted her weight slightly, aiming for nonchalance, while mentally calculating how long it would take her to get to her weapon.

"Hi," Jolene said with a slightly nervous smile. "I know you don't know me, but—hi, I'm Jolene Parker." She held out her hand, and Liz shook it, not moving from the doorway. "I'm a substitute teacher—I work with your husband? Tom? I'm subbing for Mr. Sinnard right now, but my fiancé and I are looking to move into the area… He just got a job around here, and I ran into Tom the other day at the market just down the street?" Jolene gestured to the end of the block. "He pointed out your house and told me if I wanted advice on renting or buying in the area I should definitely talk to you. He said you have a friend who's a realtor?"

Liz took a moment to respond, and Jolene barreled ahead. "I'm sorry; this is awkward. I—I should have just called. I shouldn't have just shown up on your doorstep! You don't know me from Adam!" She laughed nervously and took a step back. "I'm sorry to have disturbed your evening. I'll just get the information from Tom next time I see him in the teacher's lounge at sch—"

"No! No," Liz smiled and let out a breath, stepping back to allow a path into the house. "Of course, come in. My friend Ellie is a realtor. I'm sure I've got her card inside somewhere. The least I can do is give you her number. It's in my phone. Please, come in."

Jolene's expression split into a grateful smile, and walked quickly into the foyer past Liz. She followed her into the kitchen, and Liz began flipping through a book of business cards she kept next to the phone. As she pretended to search—she did _not_ , in fact, have Ellie's business card—Liz sized up the other woman. She was small. Size-wise, Liz could probably take her. Liz's earlier fantasy grew to involve showing up at Reddington's safe house with both Tom _and_ Jolene hog tied in the trunk of her car. Bet she'd win some points for that.

How long was it going to take to win Reddington over?

"Liz?" the front door opened, and Tom's voice called down the hall.

"Oh, hey—babe?" Liz stepped back from the book of business cards, all hope of over-powering Jolene gone with the earlier-than-expected arrival of her husband. "I'm in the kitchen," she called. "You know Jolene?"

"Oh, hey," Tom said, walking slowly into the room. Liz had begun to notice his tells: small changes in his expression, mostly in his eyes, and the tightness of his lips. His smile of recognition was a fraction of a second too late, and he looked off-balance. "You here for the realtor information?" He turned to Liz. "Jolene wanted Ellie's number—" he swung his head back to the other woman. "—but I could have just given that to you at school. You didn't have to come all the way out here…"

"Oh, no, I was in the area," Jolene said easily, waving a hand in dismissal. "I love the homes around here, and I was just trying to get a sense of the neighborhood and remembered you'd pointed out this house as yours. I figured I'd just ring the bell on the off-chance either of you were home…?"

Tom nodded and took a step back. "Well, I'd love to stay in here and talk real estate with you ladies, but I should go grade some papers."

"I should get going as well," Jolene said, taking the hint.

Liz pointed to the book and said apologetically, "I'm so disorganized… I can't find Ellie's card for the life of me. I promise I'll get one from her this week and pass it to Tom for you."

"Thank you," Jolene said gratefully, and followed Liz back to the front door. "I'm sure I'll see you around!" she said cheerfully as she descended the front steps to the street. Liz smiled and shut the door behind her.

The second the door was closed, she grabbed her cell phone from her back pocket and checked the time. Snatching up the leash from the front table, Liz called upstairs, "Babe? I only just got home myself… I'm going to take Hudson for a walk, okay? He hasn't been out yet today, and he looks miserable." Before he could object, Liz shouted, "I'll be back to help make dinner before you're done with those papers, I promise!" With that, she ducked out the door, Hudson happily in tow.

She was barely three houses down before she dialed Reddington's number. "You'll never guess who just showed up at my door." She quickly explained the circumstances for Jolene's visit, and the uncomfortable way Tom reacted to her being there.

"I've had someone looking into her whereabouts and past movements," Reddington said. "I'll pass on your information. Thank you, Agent Keen."

"You're trusting this all to _just one guy_?" Liz said, doubt and impatience obvious in her voice. "You have that much faith in his abilities?"

"If he was able to find me hiding on a sheep farm outside of Dingle, he can find this girl," Reddington assured her. "He knows she's local, and the last update I got from him included several cities she's been recently, safe houses, other aliases." He didn't share the fact that every city she'd been traced to coincided with a visit from Reddington to the same location over the last few years. She'd been tracking him.

"How she's connected to Tom?" Liz asked sharply.

"If it's relevant, I'm sure he'll uncover it, but your husband is not the primary target of his inquiries—"

Liz stopped walking abruptly, ducking into an alcove just off the sidewalk. "This needs to be over, Red, I can't do this anymore," Liz hissed, her patience worn thin. "I need to know who I've been sleeping next to—who I've been _married to_ for two years."

"The unfortunate farce your marriage has devolved into is not my problem, Agent Keen—"

"No, it's _mine_ , and it's gotten to be a _big_ problem," Liz said, her voice hard and slightly louder. "And if you want my continued cooperation, and the FBI's continued protection, you might want to start thinking about _my_ happiness and safety along with your own." Liz looked furtively down the street in both directions to check she wasn't being followed or overheard. "I'm not asking for a bodyguard or any kind of monetary kickback here. I just need your help in terms of _information. Research. Connections_. This man placed himself in my life because of my connection to _you_ —the day you turned yourself into the FBI you tried to have him _gutted_ , for God's sake—but lately he hasn't been your priority when he _should be_. You're looking for a woman who might be connected to him and his employer—why aren't we using the person we have readily available? Why hire someone to locate Lucy Brooks when we have Tom?" Liz cut herself off, aware she'd begun to rant.

"Are you finished?" Reddington inquired, his voice calm over the phone.

Liz cringed, gritting her teeth to keep from snapping at him again. "Yes."

"Then I'd like to apologize for my previous comment. You didn't ask for Tom in your life, and I shouldn't have been so flippant about the situation you find yourself in now."

Liz was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. "Thank you," she said finally, her tone curt.

"But we know where your husband is at the moment, and he's not going anywhere," Reddington continued with authority. "If he's stuck around this long then he's in it for the long game, and any time we get desperate we can use him as a resource. But if we expose him, Lucy Brooks—Jolene Parker—is gone. So… while we still have options, we work on bringing in Lucy Brooks, and you need to keep Tom believing you suspect nothing. Do you understand?"

Liz closed her eyes, hating the feeling of being scolded. "Yes," she bit out. She could grudgingly admit to herself that she could see merit in his plan.

"Go home to your husband, Agent Keen. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

…:::…

The next day, Rifkin was executed. Cooper and Connelly, as planned, were there to witness it.

As they walked out into the harsh sunlight, Cooper took several deep breaths, taking care to hide the distaste he felt for watching another man's death, even if it was rightly deserved.

"We did the right thing," Connelly said.

"Yes," Cooper agreed solemnly. "Just not the right way."

"Let me ask you something," Connelly said, turning to the other man on the sidewalk. "That agent yesterday, Keen, the task force. I mean, I've asked around on the Hill, Main Justice. Nobody knows that the hell it is you do. I've heard the stories. They say you guys are taking down everybody—people who aren't even on the radar." Connelly raised his eyebrows, curious. "How?"

Cooper responded with only a tight lipped smile.

Connelly laughed. "Really? Nothing? Well, I can tell you this," he said as he began to walk again. "When I'm Attorney General and I get the President to appoint you Director of the FBI, you're gonna tell me all about it. The truth about your 'secret weapon'… because we both know you have one."

...:::…

The news of Cooper and Connelly's kidnapping spread quickly through the Post Office, and after meeting with Ressler and Meera, Liz grabbed her coat and walked purposefully toward the elevator.

"Keen!" Ressler yelled after her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To find Cooper and Connelly," she said as the doors slid shut in front of her.

…:::…

She brushed past Dembe when he opened the door, making a beeline for where Reddington sat at a large table in the tall, central main room of the house.

"Rifkin was executed this morning," she said by way of a greeting. "Cooper and Connelly were taken outside the parking garage immediately afterward." She came to a halt next to him, and waited until he looked up at her. "I need your help finding the Judge before he kills them."

Reddington said nothing.

Liz pulled an unmarked white envelope from inside her jacket and passed it to Reddington. "These were just going to be a gift, and then yesterday I decided they should be an apology. For the way I spoke to you on the phone. I'm sorry I lost my temper." Reddington opened the flap and partially pulled out two tickets to Swan Lake that week at the Kennedy Center. He said nothing, and Liz continued, "But now they're the only bribe I can manage on short notice. _I need you._ Please help me find where the Judge is holding Cooper and Connelly." Reddington tucked the tickets back into their envelope and looked up at Liz, his eyes slightly narrowed and searching, as if he could find the answers to questions he hadn't voiced simply by studying her face closely enough. Liz cleared her throat. "I don't know if you already have tickets, but… I know you see it often—it seems like every time you possibly _can_ —and this visiting company is from Russia… they're supposed to be excellent."

After another long moment, Reddington pocketed the tickets, looking away from Liz as he stood.

"Wait… are you going to help?" Liz asked.

"I understand that you want to save Cooper's life. But why Connelly's?" Reddington asked.

"He's a US Attorney, he—"

"The world would be a better place without him," Reddington said matter-of-factly. "If I told you we'd both probably benefit from our decision in the long run if we didn't put any extra effort into finding the Judge in time to save them, would you believe me?"

Liz swallowed. "Yes," she said after a moment. "I'd believe you. But that wouldn't stop me trying to save them."

Reddington turned toward the door. "I'll see what I can do," he told her as he left the room.

…:::…

Reddington knew he only had sixty seconds until his contact walked down the hallway toward him, but he sat on the hard, polished wood bench in the government building anyway, and took the opportunity to called the cowboy.

"Yes?"

"Bring in the girl," Reddington said. "Now." He hung up as a man approached him, looking like he'd seen a ghost.

Reddington's face slid from displeasure to a more jovial expression as he stood and held his arms out to each side. "Richard… it's been a long time," he greeted his friend. He looked him up and down, tilting his head to assess the other man's uniform. "I keep meaning to attend our academy class reunions, and then I remember how pinched I look in dinner dress blues."

"You know you made a hell of a mess when you left. Rooming with you was the worst thing that ever happened to me. What the _hell_ do you want?" Richard asked grimly.

"Richard… I need to know about the Rifkin case."

…:::…

Tom burst in to the warehouse and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the top. He rounded the corner and found his colleague staring at the wall of evidence and orders Tom had been given and amassed over the course of his assignment. "Hey, what the hell is wrong with you? You come to my _house_?" he yelled.

"Calm down," she said unemotionally.

"You're not my handler. I don't work for you," Tom spat.

"Berlin is having doubts. It never looks good when an undercover agent goes dark for as long as you did."

"Yeah, well, Berlin doesn't have a clue. Four months ago I had to go dark because Reddington sent a psychopath with a knife into my house to try to get information from me, and because of that Liz finds my go-bag, my passports, then Gina gets shot and picked up by Liz's team… " Tom huffed out a breath in frustration. "Like I said, Berlin doesn't have a _clue_ how hard I'm working here to keep all of this afloat. I've had my hands full."

"Stop," Jolene said abruptly, pointing to one of the monitors on a low table next to them. "Who's he?"

…:::…

The cowboy had made short work of the lock on the front door of the warehouse. He crept silently up the stairs, weapon drawn. He knew the girl was here, and while taking her on such short notice wouldn't have been his preference, he was a professional, and if Reddington wanted her brought in today, he didn't think that would be a problem.

When he peered around the pillar at the top of the stairs to see the girl standing still in the middle of the room, staring straight at him, his earlier assumption fractured. She'd seen him coming. She was waiting for him. She began to walk toward him slowly, and when she was within ten feet, she smiled.

Tom stepped quietly up behind the cowboy, and slit his throat.

"Well," Jolene said with a raised eyebrow, closing the rest of the distance between them. "That was anti-climacti—"

Tom dropped the heavy weight of the cowboy and spun, driving the knife into her gut. She gasped and looked up at him, shocked. She grabbed desperately at his shoulders, and he twisted the knife.

"You never should have come to my house in the first place…and you _never_ should have talked to my wife."

…:::…

Liz was furious when she was sidelined. Ressler and Meera took a field team to the Pennsylvania farm they'd tracked the Judge's operation to, and she'd been told in no uncertain terms to stay put at the Post Office. She and Aram worked from their desks, providing what little support they could when it was asked of them.

She didn't even know Reddington had been involved with the rescue until she heard his voice in the background when Cooper called her to give specific instructions afterward about who else needed to be informed immediately about the events. "Is Reddington there?" she asked, interrupting her boss.

"I'm not discussing this with you right now, Agent Keen. I'll see you back at the office."

Liz hung up the phone angrily and looked up at Aram. "Did you know?" she asked fiercely. His eyes widened, and he held his hands up in surrender, shaking his head emphatically. Liz growled and retreated to her desk.

…:::…

Several hours later, Cooper and Reddington strode back into the Post Office with the rest of the team, Reddington looking like he'd just gotten the better half of a deal. Cooper swept away quickly, climbing the stairs to his office and shutting the door.

Liz stood up as Reddington walked past her desk and tilted his head, indicating she should follow him. She dutifully trailed him to one of the back stairwells, and as the door shut behind them, she began, "I'm sorry—I've asked a lot from you this week, and I haven't always been nice about it." Reddington said nothing, and Liz bit her lip, wondering why they were in the stairwell. "Thank you for… whatever you did for Cooper and Connelly," she continued, hoping the change in subject would loosen his lips.

No such luck.

"I thought about what you said about Tom, and you're right, I—"

"The tickets you gave me," he interrupted quietly, frowning at the concrete landing they were standing on. His low voice echoed in the space.

Liz nodded. "It's tonight, right? Are you still planning to go?" Liz asked. "If you don't have any one to go with, I'd be happy to be your date—" she offered, mentally wincing at the hopeful tone of her voice.

"I'm afraid I have other plans," Reddington responded, not meeting her eye as he seemed to regard his hat carefully as he turned it over slowly in his hands. "But thank you for the gesture. I'll reimburse you the cost of the tickets—"

Liz shook her head and waved her hand dismissively. "They were a gift." She managed a smile, and continued, "I'm sure you know someone else who'd like to use them. Hell, use them to butter up a potential source you think might be useful in future. You'll find something to do with them."

Reddington bobbed his head, his brow furrowed, and placed his hand on the door handle as if to leave, but stopped abruptly and turned back to Liz. His jaw worked for a moment before he finally exhaled sharply, deciding what he wanted to say. "Thank you for the gesture," he repeated, his demeanor tense, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring this up again. I don't know what you know, or what you _think_ you know about the subject, but… Please don't bring this up again. This is not something I discuss with you. Is that understood?"

Liz felt her cheeks flush. "I don't _know_ anything," she said, and hurried to continue when Reddington rolled his eyes with skepticism. "That is… I know you've seen _this particular_ ballet many times. And not just the number of times a fan of Tchaikovsky sees it. You don't frequent the ballet otherwise. It's _just_ Swan Lake. _That_ ballet is personal. I don't know why it is, but… it is." Liz shrugged, her face contrite. "I'm a profiler. I'm practically _your personal_ profiler. I have information about your actions, and I make educated guesses about the motivations behind them. That's all."

"You know more about my past than you're willing to share with me," he said, obviously not convinced.

"Yes," Liz admitted freely. "I do. But not on this particular point. It was an easy assumption that Swan Lake meant something to you, and I saw tickets were available, simple as that. I don't know why you've seen it so many times, but going by the look on your face right now and this conversation? I'm guessing you don't watch it for pleasure. This looks more like punishment."

Reddington's left eye twitched slightly, and Liz knew she'd hit a nerve. Damn. She had made up her mind to smooth things over with him, and here she was, making it worse. Connelly was right: she _was_ a dog with a bone.

"Why do you watch Swan Lake, Red?" she asked quietly, barely above a whisper.

Red palmed his hat onto his head and looked at Liz with a steely expression. "This is not something I discuss with you," he repeated, his voice dangerously low. " _Is that understood_?"

Liz nodded miserably, and Reddington swung the door open, leaving Liz alone I the dimly lit stairwell.

...:::…

Reddington walked quickly to the waiting car outside and slammed the backseat door behind himself as he got in. He withdrew his phone from his jacket and dialed Mr. Kaplan as the car pulled away from the curb.

"The cowboy," he asked when she answered. "… have you found him?"

"No."

Reddington clenched his teeth. "The girl?"

"Nothing. Both of them… they're gone."

Reddington didn't bother to end the call verbally, simply hit a button as he pulled the phone away from his ear, and tossed it on the seat next to him in frustration as he stared out the window.

"Back to the house?" Dembe asked from the front seat.

"Yes, briefly," Reddington said. "I'll need to change clothes, but then I'm going back out."

"Business or pleasure tonight? Or both?"

Reddington sighed as he watched the gray blur of DC streets pass. "Neither. I have tickets to the ballet."

…:::…

TBC.

Ugh, this one was a monster, and I apologize about the plodding and crazy transitions. I have grand plans for Ivan, and I swear I'll pick up the quality of things in the next chapter. :) Thank you for reading!


	16. Ivan

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Notes: Thank you, almcvay1, for being an awesome sounding board and patiently allowing me to work through the issues I had with this chapter, and I'm so grateful for the direction and suggestions you gave me! :)

…:::…

Chapter 16: Ivan

…:::…

Liz was surprised when she'd called Reddington to get his current location and was told he was back in the borrowed house of his friend the hedge fund manager; just weeks after the debacle with Madeline Pratt. "What are you doing back in this house? Don't you usually mix it up a bit more than this?" Liz said as she entered the sitting room carrying a large package wrapped in butcher paper and string.

"I had another place lined up—beautiful, modern lines in the sunroom, you would have loved it—but the owner unfortunately decided to get caught with a large amount of cocaine in his luggage trying to cross from Russia into Japan, along with some questionable documentation that suggests he's been involved in various international criminal enterprises, and Interpol is swarming all of his residences now, looking for more. Such a pity. The wine cellar is to die for."

"Well, it's somewhat appropriate that you're here again because I have a present for you that belongs in this house," Liz said, handing the package to Reddington. He carefully opened the paper and was greeted by the hideous face of Vermeer's girl playing the piano.

"Ugh. I didn't even realize she was missing," he sighed, his face twisted as if he was tasting something bitter. "You know how the cleanliness of a kitchen never occurs to you when the room is actually clean, but you always notice a dirty kitchen?" he said, perturbed. "Put her over there," he grumbled, motioning at the far end of the room. "And how do you have her, anyway?"

"Madeline Pratt took her after your last…encounter. Apparently she thought you'd notice, get mad, and come after her to get it back." Liz paused t enjoy the expression on Reddington's face. "She said she left you a note. Something about Florence…?" Liz added innocently.

"You've spoken to Madeline?" Reddington asked carefully.

"Mmm," Liz affirmed. "She sounded pretty upset. Had lots to say about you."

Reddington's eyes narrowed, but Liz thought she could see a hint of surprise and respect in them. "And you were just… able to track down Madeline Pratt and get her on the phone?"

"Well, I had to go through Yasmine, and Madeline wasn't pleased when she found out how we'd lied to her about who I was—" Liz admitted.

"Yasmine Goddard? How do you know—oh, for the love of—nevermind." Reddington closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "And just what did you and Madeline discuss, other than her sticky fingers, your actual day job, and the location of that painting?"

"You, mostly," Liz said honestly.

Reddington opened his mouth to continue the interrogation, but was interrupted by Dembe, who walked swiftly into the room, carrying a cell phone. "For you," he said, handing it to Reddington. "It's her."

Reddington took the phone and held it to his ear, glaring slightly at Liz, who tried to keep her expression from appearing too smug. "Sweetheart… not really the most convenient time for me."

Liz's smug expression tightened. Who was 'sweetheart'?

"You're like a human bloodhound," Reddington said, admiration in his voice. There was a pause, and he continued, "How long?" Reddington listened to the response and gave a sharp laugh. "As much as I'd love to see that, it won't be necessary. Perhaps another time, though. And I don't want any indication that you were there, so please put it all back the way you found it."

"'Sweetheart'?" Liz asked, cocking an eyebrow at him as he hung up. "Who's 'sweetheart'?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but that was Mr. Kaplan. She found the body of Lucy Brooks and the man I hired to find her and bring her in. They were buried at a remote location; the whole thing looks fairly professional."

"Tom," Liz said unemotionally.

"I think it's safe to assume," Reddington agreed, dialing a new number on his phone.

"How do you want to handle this?" Liz asked.

Reddington held a finger up, indicating a desire for Liz's silence as the call went through. "Yes, hello, I'd like to report a missing person."

…:::…

Liz had had quite enough of her husband.

As she was leaving Reddington's safe house, she called Aram and requested two things. The first was a list of recent calls to and from a particular cell phone. She didn't mention that the phone had been found on a dead woman named Lucy Brooks—she wanted Aram to have as much plausible deniability as possible. The second thing she asked for was a tracking device to be installed in a toy.

"What kind of toy?" Aram asked. "Like… do you have one already in mind? Or…just…any toy? Is this—" Aram paused and dropped his voice to a loud stage whisper. "—Are we talking 'kid toy'? Or… y'know… the 'adult' variety—?"

"Something appropriate for a fourth grader, Aram," Liz admonished.

"Oh, oh, right, of course, I just… I never want to assume, y'know, thinking too linearly can be a bad habit to get in to, and—"

"Thanks, Aram," Liz said, cutting him off. "Estimated time this will all be done?"

"End of day, if not before," Aram replied confidently.

"I owe you one."

"You owe me several at this point, but I'm not actually counting."

…:::…

The next morning, as Tom was making coffee, Liz sat down at the table behind him and cleared her throat. "This…" she said, sliding a blue plastic hippo across the table toward him, "…is Uncle—"

"—Flippo. Yeah," Tom finished, a look of confusion on his face. "My kids are all nuts about that thing. Personally, I don't get it, but… why do you have an Uncle Flippo?"

"It's an olive branch," Liz answered. "A ridiculous, popular, plastic, physical embodiment of an apology. Tom… I'm so sorry. I've been… insane, lately. I know my work has been crazy, and I've been terrible to you. I saw this at the store last night, and I know it sounds silly, but… it made me remember all the things I love about you." Liz gave what she hoped was an honest and entreating look. "You're silly, and funny, and a hard worker, and… your kids at school love you, because you're smart, and a great teacher, and I'm so lucky to have a stable guy in my life I can count on. And I know…" Liz looked down, trying to keep her voice appropriate as she lied through her teeth. "I know you're going to make an awesome dad one day. I thought maybe… this weekend? We could talk about the adoption process again."

Tom paused a second too long, and Liz noted it, but didn't react. "Really?" he said, his face breaking in to a surprised, hopeful smile. "You… I thought you were done with the idea, after last time; you haven't wanted to talk about it in over six months, you took us off the list—?"

"Well…" Liz gave a small smile. "Maybe I'd be okay with putting ourselves back on that list sometime soon. Or at least talking about it. This weekend? Can we talk?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. Liz, I love you," Tom said, crossing the kitchen and sitting across the table from Liz. He reached out his hands, and grabbed hers. "I know things between us have gotten really strained lately, but… I want to fix this. Of course we can talk—about all of this."

Liz smiled broadly. "Ok. Then take Uncle flash-light-butt, and get going, because I know you have a dentist appointment this morning, and you're going to be late if you don't leave now."

Tom smiled back at her, and she was amazed at the ease with which he did. She'd checked with the dentist: he hadn't been in since his last cleaning a year ago, and had no upcoming appointments scheduled. "Flash-light-butt is going to get me some serious cred at school," he agreed with deadpan sincerity before winking at her. He grabbed the toy, stuffed it in his bag, kissed Liz quickly, and headed toward the front door.

Liz got up to pour herself a cup of coffee when she heard a crash and an aborted curse from their foyer.

"Babe?" she said. "What was that? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just—I tripped over these boxes—they're blocking the door. What is all this, Liz?" Tom asked. Liz rounded the corner and found him rubbing one knee, his face contorted in a wince.

"Some of my dad's things—my aunt boxed up the really sentimental stuff and sent it to me as a gift. She figured I'd want to—" Liz broke off as she looked down and saw a large, old wooden box upended on the ground, the lid hanging off wildly on one hinge, and at least one crack in the glass, as far as she could see. "Oh, no…" Liz sank to her knees and righted the box.

"What is that?" Tom asked.

"It's a music box…" Liz said quietly. "It was… nevermind. You should go; you're going to be late for your appointment…"

"Okay, and hey—just put that to the side—I'll take a look at it tonight," Tom said, opening the door to leave. "I'm sure it's not broken too badly, and I'll see if I can put Humpty Dumpty back together again."

…:::…

Reddington arrived on Liz's front stoop later than he'd originally estimated.

"You're late," she said glumly from the floor of her living room. She didn't bother looking up from the music box, which she'd moved to the coffee table in order to better inspect the extent of the damage.

"Something came up. Did you get the phone records for Lucy Brooks' cell phone?" Reddington asked, walking into the room. "Is everything all right?" he added, noticing her demeanor.

"Yeah, fine."

Liz wasn't bothering to lie well, and Reddington motioned to the mangled music box. Liz had managed to completely remove the lid in order to look at the mechanism inside more closely. "What is all this?" he asked.

"It was a music box. It was my father's—Sam's. My aunt sent it to me, and Tom knocked into it on his way out the door this morning." Liz sighed. "I didn't even play it yesterday. I was busy, and I wanted to wait until tomorrow, because I figured…" Liz shook her head and pushed herself up off the floor to sit on the couch. "I should have taken a moment to listen to it. I'd give anything now just to hear it one more time…"

Reddington pursed his lips and peered down at the box. "You know, I'm decently handy with this type of thing. This damage may be beyond what I'm capable of repairing, but I've done a little restoration on mechanisms similar to this…"

Liz looked up hopefully. "Would you… would you take a look at it? Just see what you could do?" she asked.

Reddington bobbed his head, and by his expression, Liz could tell this consultation would come with strings attached.

"But I never do something for nothing, Agent Keen. What do I get out of this?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Are you kidding me?" she shot back, ready with a rebuttal. "Yesterday I returned a forty-million dollar painting to you!"

"It's not my painting, and besides, I don't want that girl anywhere near me, so really: you did me a disservice by bringing her back."

The pair of them stared each other down for a long minute, and just as Reddington was about to give in and agree to do what he could to repair the music box, Liz said, "I snuck out of the hotel room we'd set ourselves up in… in Brussels. I'd heard Ressler say over the com that things hadn't gone to plan, and he'd been given authorization to stop you—by any means necessary. I knew that meant he'd kill you. And I couldn't let that happen." Reddington stayed silent, hoping she'd continue, which she did, squaring her shoulders and sitting up a bit taller. "The only thing I had in the pocket of my jacket to write on was a lottery ticket I'd bought the day before I'd left for Europe with the team, so I scribbled the note on that, and grabbed the first kid who passed me on a bike. Gave him the note and a handful of cash and promised him the same amount in three hours if he delivered the note to you." Reddington's eyes narrowed. "I knew the specifics of your meet that day. Which bench you'd be on outside Waterloo Station. What you looked like. What you'd probably be wearing."

"You could have lost your job. You could have gone to jail for obstruction of justice, aiding a—"

"I know," Liz interrupted, looking up at Reddington with her jaw set.

"Why?" Reddington asked.

"I told you; I owed you a debt. Saving your life was a good first step towards repayment. I spent a good many years hating you at first, until persistence, research, and perspective made me realize what kind of man you really are, even if the government is unwilling to admit it."

Reddington tilted his head at Liz and studied her. "And what kind of man am I?" he said, his voice low and quiet.

Liz gave him a ghost of a smile. "The kind of man whose life warranted saving in Brussels," she answered, the finality in her tone indicating she was done offering information. "So… will you look at the music box?"

Reddington inclined his head. "I'll do what I can."

…:::…

Reddington had taken the remains of the broken box with him when he left, after they'd discussed the current case they were working on over a quick cup of coffee. Liz was just locking the front door when her phone buzzed. She paused on her front steps to fish it out of her pocket.

"Aram, hi. What have you got for me?"

"I know I said I'd have those phone records you asked me for by end of day yesterday—"

"Dammit—" Liz swore, stopping halfway down the steps, her eyes closed.

"What?" Aram asked, immediately concerned.

"Nothing, no…" She'd completely forgotten to tell Reddington about the tracker she'd had placed in the toy Tom had walked away with this morning, and in her preoccupation with the shattered music box, she hadn't even checked the GPS yet. "I just forgot to do something. Go on."

"Okay, so Agent Ressler's—" Aram's voice dropped, and Liz almost had to ask him to speak up so she could hear him. "You didn't hear this from me, but Agent Ressler's girlfriend left him a few days ago, and—"

"Well, that explains the worse-than-usual mood he's been in," Liz said sourly. "I didn't even know he was dating anyone?"

"Anyway, he had me running double and triple checks on that car we recovered—turns out the airbag was deployed remotely, prior to the car crashing, which means—"

"Aram, I'm sure I'll get this briefing when I get in today. Was there a specific reason for this call?" Liz interrupted, walking toward her car.

"Yes, sorry, right. The phone records for the number you gave me—I finally got them back this morning. Mostly other cell phones, one in particular, but unregistered, a pre-paid. I did manage to pull location data from the cell towers. I've got the address where most of the calls originated from. You got a pen?"

…:::…

Liz pulled up to the warehouse at 1896 La Vista Street. She knocked, and after a second attempt and waiting what she considered to be an appropriate amount of time, she dug a lock-pick out of her coat and set to work on the mechanism, glancing up and down the deserted street occasionally to ensure she wasn't being watched, unaware of the small, mounted camera trained on her as she worked.

The minute Tom saw her approach, he'd begun frantically breaking down the site. Photos and files were shoved in bins and set ablaze, quick keystrokes erased hard drives and memory banks. Just before Liz successfully clicked open the front door, Tom managed to slip out the back to the enclosed area behind the warehouse, kicking himself for not installing a ladder, rope—anything—he could have used to get out of the dead end he found himself in.

Liz walked slowly into the silent room, the red strings and pushpins on the large, main, now-empty wall confirming that this had once been a base of operations for someone. Most likely, Lucy Brooks.

When her attention fell on a low table in the corner, she drew her weapon. There were more than a dozen different guns spread out across the surface, but no-one in sight. Moving farther in to the space, Liz rounded on a computer screen, still showing four different angles of the exterior of the building. If someone had been here when she arrived, they'd known she was on her way up well before she'd managed to pick the lock.

Just outside the door Liz heard a crackling noise, and she spun, her weapon aimed but her finger off the trigger. As she walked slowly through the door, she began to smell smoke and the unattractive scent of burning photographs. She walked over to a metal drum, the flames from the contents leaping up above the rim of the container.

At least one of the photographs was of her. She watched it for a split second as the edges of her face curled and distorted with the heat before she turned to clear the rest of the space. She checked behind the hanging tarps, finding nothing, but she was unable to shake the sensation of being watched; that there was someone else there with her.

As she crept back into the main building, her suspicions were confirmed. The large wood door swung heavily into her, slamming painfully into her right shoulder. She stumbled forward, attempting to stay on her feet. Strong hands shoved against her back, and she hit the ground in front of one of the tables with a grunt, her gun clattering out of her hands. She swung her head, trying to get a visual on her attacker, and was greeted by the sight of the folding table, tipping, spilling its contents as it crashed on top of her. She cringed and braced herself for the impact of the metal, curling in on herself protectively. Something solid slid from the table top and slammed into her head, causing Liz to momentarily see stars. Her vision cleared in time to watch the back of an average-build man run with a slight limp to the front door and disappear through it.

…:::…

Less than an hour later, Liz sat, holding an ice pack to her head as she described the events to a local investigator. "The place was ransacked before I got here," Liz told him. "There's even a cache of burned documents outside in a bucket, but they're ashes now."

"You get a visual on the suspect?"

Liz crinkled her nose with a non-committal shrug. "Over six feet. Caucasian, dark hair. Slight… limp…" Liz trailed off, frowning, remembering the way Tom had favored his left knee as he'd left the house that morning after smashing it into the music box.

"Agent Keen? Are you alright?" the investigator asked.

Liz nodded quickly. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just… I just remembered I need to check in at work with something…" She pulled her phone from her pocket and loaded the tracking info Aram had given her for the GPS unit in Tom's Uncle Flippo.

The blinking red dot perfectly covered her current location on the map. Liz stood, and began looking around again, ignoring the investigator's questions and offers of medical attention. After less than two minutes, Liz had located the blue plastic hippo in one of the unburnt garbage cans.

Her attacker was Tom.

…:::…

The rest of Liz's day was spent at the computer next to Aram's, running down details and advising Ressler and Meera on negotiation tactics and ways to better relate to the high-tech, teenage stalker on whom they'd finally pinned the theft and borderline cyber-terrorism. Meera managed to subdue him after chasing him onto the subway, and the boy was brought in.

It served as a convenient and thorough distraction to keep her mind off of what she'd learned about her husband that morning.

When she finally left the office for the day, she pointed her car towards Reddington, and not her own home. Dembe opened the door for her when she got there, and wordlessly motioned for her to proceed down the hall.

Liz found Reddington with his vest unbuttoned and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, tinkering with a mechanism from the music box. She had walked casually into the room and collapsed into an arm chair before she'd even looked at him properly: he looked at ease, his hands moving with sure precision, and a calm look of concentration on his face. She liked him like this.

Liz sighed. "Quick. Say something nice to me. It's been a dreadful day."

Reddington glanced up from what he was doing, and then back down to flick the moving part. It spun smoothly. Apparently satisfied, he went about installing it back in its rightful place within the box. "What made today so horrible?" he asked absently.

"I put a tracker on Tom, and it coincided with the address that Lucy Brooks made the majority of her calls from on her cell phone. There were cameras outside the warehouse, so by the time I'd let myself in, Tom had already liquidated and burned almost everything useful—"

Reddington put down what he was doing and looked up at Liz. She had his full attention. "You brought Tom in today?" he asked sharply.

"No, he got away; I spent the rest of the day taking down Ivan with the team. Turns out a seventeen year old whiz kid had been using your Ivan's name, directing suspicion away from himself while he—"

"Start from the beginning," Reddington interrupted again. "What happened after I left your house this morning?"

Liz gave him a coy smile and looked pointedly at the music box. "I'll talk, as long as you keep working. You stop, I stop." Reddington set his jaw and didn't move. Liz rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, leaning her head back in the chair as she sighed theatrically. "You know, I need some wine. Preferably the entire bottle." She groaned as she pushed herself forward, moving to get up. "Maybe Dembe can help me find the kitchen, I'm sure you have something—"

"Talk," Reddington demanded, picking up the small screwdriver he'd been holding a moment before. He glared at her and began working again.

Liz smiled, satisfied, and reclined into the plush upholstery again.

"I got to the warehouse, and like I said—he saw me coming. When I got upstairs there was a monitor with live feeds from four different external cameras; they had a pretty decent set-up. Almost everything worthwhile was burning in metal drums in the back." Liz's eyes dropped to the floor. "He got away, and I called it in."

"You realize if you had let me know—if you'd let me plan this—instead of running in there, alone… he might not have had time to destroy the paperwork that could have led us back to his employer." Reddington picked up the unattached lid of the music box and swung the box around, fitting the first hinge back in place and tightening the screws. "While it's likely that he killed Lucy Brooks and the man I sent after her, we have yet to confirm that, and you just went to this warehouse alone? And now he's in the wind?"

Liz's shoulders tightened. "I'd try to argue my case, but honestly? I'm too tired. You're right. I screwed up." Liz leaned back into her chair again. "But he's not in the wind. He texted me today—I didn't get a good look at him when he ran, and he doesn't know I put a tracker on him. I don't think he knows that I know."

"And you found nothing useful there?" Reddington asked.

"The information was destroyed very thoroughly. He worked fast, I'll give him that. I found one half-burned photograph of me, but I didn't see anything else specific. Maybe forensics will be able to get something off one of the computers."

"No evidence connecting any of this to me?" Reddington asked, his eyes glued to the second hinge as he tightened the screws into place.

"No."

"So you believe they were only surveilling you from that outpost?"

"Why would anyone have surveillance on me if not as a way to gain information about you?" Liz asked.

Reddington pointed the screwdriver he held in his right hand at Liz with a raised eyebrow. "That is a terrific question," he said pointedly. "Why did you start researching me in the first place—following my life? Why did you feel you 'owed' me something in Brussels? What was it I did for you?" Reddington put the screw driver down and concentrated his attention on Liz.

"I can't answer that."

"You can't or you won't?"

"Well, that's a matter of interpretation."

"Not to me. Just once I'd like to hear the whole truth from you, instead of this dance you've been doing, feeding me bread crumbs to try to keep me just interested enough that I don't request another contact on the task force. You do know I've done some terrible things to people who have irritated me far less than you have so far, don't you?"

"Then why have you let me get away with this for so long?" Liz asked.

Reddington clenched his jaw, but remained silent.

Liz studied Reddington tiredly. "You don't have many people who challenge you, do you? I don't mean 'threaten' you; I mean 'rival' you. In secrets, in information. I don't claim to have much in the way of power or clout with the scary people of the international criminal scene, but I do have information. You gain information by being splashy about it: you're bold, and loud, and you rely on your name and your presence. I've collected a lot of knowledge by being quiet over the years. Gentle inquiries and displays of intelligence, loyalty, and discretion can get you pretty far." Liz sighed and sat forward, leaning her elbows on her knees. "I know you're used to holding all the cards… but now you're dealing with someone who has her own, and I understand that it frustrates you, not knowing what I've got. I get that. And I'm sorry, but I can't show you my hand right now."

Reddington took a deep breath, and leaned back in his chair. "How did Tom manage to get away without you seeing him?" he asked quietly, resisting the temptation to continue hounding the infuriating woman in front of him for answers regarding their past.

"He hit me with a door. Pushed me to the floor; knocked my head into the ground. Tipped a table over on top of me while I was down. Piece of electronic equipment clocked me pretty hard." Liz lifted her hair and turned her head to show off the impressive bruise and small cut she'd earned. "Took me a minute to get up."

Reddington's face darkened. "He hit you?" he asked in a low voice.

Liz bobbed her head and gave a small shrug. "I've had much worse. And I'm tougher than I look."

"You said he texted you today; you seem to think he doesn't suspect that you know it was him at the warehouse. Why? What did he text you?"

In response, Liz pulled out her phone and passed it to Reddington.

//

TOM (CELL)

11:47 Hey. Did you invite Ellie to dinner tomorrow?

12:07 . . . No, I thought you were going to call her?  
12:08 . . . How was your dentist appointment?

12:10 You're right. Forgot to call. I will right now.  
12:11 Clean bill of health from the dentist.  
12:17 Ellie's in for birthday dinner.

12:20 . . . Great. Thanks, babe.

12:22 You know I love you, right? :)

12:23 . . . Love you, too. I'll see you later tonight. Will probably miss dinner. Work still crazy. I'll tell you about it when I get home.

12:35 Okay. Be safe.

//

Reddington passed the phone back to Liz. "It's a pity you two don't work for the same side. You're both very good at this."

Liz rolled her eyes. "At this point he makes my skin crawl."

"Whose birthday?" Reddington asked.

"Mine," Liz answered unemotionally, not meeting Reddington's eyes. When he didn't respond, she looked up at him. "I mean…" Liz shifted in her seat. She had already shared way too much with him in the past two days. What was wrong with her? It's like she couldn't stop talking. "…it's not actually my birthday. Not my real birthday. It's the birthday Sam chose when he adopted me. Still… finding out your husband is a murderer and a liar, and then having him beat you to the ground? Not the greatest of birthday presents." Liz shook her head and ran her hands along the arms of the chair. "Tomorrow shouldn't even really matter all that much to me, right? But nobody knows my real birthday, so this is the only one I've had for… twenty years."

Reddington tapped one finger on the table in front of him. "You were ten years old when you were adopted. You knew your own birthday." Liz didn't look up from the pattern of the chair fabric between her fingers and stayed silent. "Why didn't your adoptive father use your real birthday? Why didn't you get to keep your name?" Still nothing. "When is your actual birthday?" he asked quietly.

Liz finally looked up at him, but only to give him a thin-lipped, sad smile.

Reddington nodded, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get answers tonight. Taking a deep breath, he put both hands on either side of the music box, and pushed it forward on the table, toward Liz. "Well, then," he said. "If you refuse to tell anyone your real birthday, then I suppose today is the only one you get, and we should all celebrate accordingly, even if it's part of a manufactured past." He opened the lid and the familiar melody from her childhood began to play. "And I'm glad I was able to finish the restoration today, because I didn't get you a gift. A restored music box will have to do this year; next year I'll plan better."

Liz pushed off from the chair and moved toward the music. Her lips parted, she trailed a hand across the edge of the lid. "You fixed it," she breathed.

Reddington stared up at her, watching her face. She seemed so sad, and yet so overjoyed at the same time. Her face was beautiful, and she seemed like she'd forgotten he was even in the room as she pored over the intricate workings of the inner mechanism. The song ended, and she looked up at him with such a grateful, guileless look on her face that he couldn't help but smile back.

"This song…" Liz started the music box over again. "When I was a little girl, my mother would hum it for me. I missed it so much once I got to America, and Sam, he couldn't hold a tune to save his life, so he… he found this for me. He'd play it when I had nightmares."

During the first few years it had happened with exhausting frequency: she'd wake up feeling as if she were back there, choking on smoke, the harsh burn of flames licking at her. She'd sit straight up in bed, screaming, and Sam would invariably appear in her doorway. For a long time he respected her space. She didn't want to be held by him, so he'd just sit in a hard wooden chair at her bedside, set the music box going, and hand her a sketch pad. 'Draw your dream,' he'd say. 'It's the best way to get it out of your head. Pull it all out and stick it on the paper instead.'

Liz flashed Reddington another smile. "Thank you for fixing this," she said, stressing every word. "This means so much to me."

Reddington nodded, silently accepting her gratitude. "I've got one more present for you," he said after a moment. "I think it's high time I helped get Tom out of your life. Tomorrow: let's start working on how to bring him in."

…:::…

TBC.

(Seriously, though, 1x17 and 2x17 aired the same week in April. Even in the canon events, Liz's birthday fell the same week as Ivan, and Tom punching her, and the music box! I was so excited when I did the math to include this detail in Gestalt!)


	17. Milton Bobbit

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Okay. Initially this was just going to be the Pilot episode. Then I figured I'd write through Anslo Garrick Parts 1&2, because those are my favorite Season One episodes. And then I figured as long as I'd gotten _that_ far, I might as well go to Madeline Pratt, but then I _really_ wanted to write about the music box… So now I've got it in my head that I need to finish the entire first season. To make things worse, I have a very firm deadline of wrapping up this Season One rewrite before Season Three premieres. This gives me five weeks to write five episodes. On your mark, get set…. GO.

…:::…

Chapter 17: Milton Bobbit

…:::…

"Happy birthday….!" Tom smiled as Liz came in to the kitchen the next morning. He walked toward her slowly with a plate, a lit candle standing tall and alone in the center of a stack of pancakes. "My world-famous pancakes." He set them down in front of her on the table with a flourish. "Gluten-free," he added.

She hated these pancakes. Detested them. Always had. And she'd never understood the gluten-free aspect: neither one of them had a gluten intolerance. Nothing else they ate was gluten-free. Why make her suffer through pancakes made that way?

She forced a smile, which he saw right through. "You okay? What's—what's wrong?" he asked, all compassion and concern.

"Nothing… I'm just feeling a little… wonky," she managed.

"Uh-huh. Some of the kids at school have the flu. I hope I didn't give you something. It's the _worst_ when you're sick on your birthday." Tom stopped and gave a gently teasing smile. "Or is this just because you turned thirty today? The number making you feel a little light-headed? It _is_ a dizzying—ow!" Liz punched him playfully on the arm. "Kidding, I was kidding." His face quieted from a smile to a more serious expression. "But actually, I wanted to talk to you about something. Since pancakes—even ones as great as these—aren't a decent birthday present on their own, I want to book a trip. Let's go somewhere tropical, if only for a few days, and… I want to renew our wedding vows while we're there."

Liz's eyebrows shot up, and her stomach twisted. Tom slid off his chair and dropped to one knee, holding one of Liz's hands in his. "Elizabeth… will you… marry me?"

For a triumphant moment Liz envisioned picking up her plate, smashing it over his head, and stuffing his mouth full of the dry, flavorless pancakes as he writhed on the floor.

Instead, she gave a surprised, happy sigh, and breathed, "Yes!"

"Yes?" he repeated, confirming her answer.

"I think that's a great idea," she gushed, wondering if she was over-doing it.

He stood up. "Okay, we'll talk more about this tonight. I'd love to stay and eat with you, but because I let the birthday girl sleep in, I'm going to have to _fly_ to get to work on time. So… dinner tonight with everybody. You call me if you start feeling worse? We can always reschedule until later in the week if you need." Tom picked up his bag, kissed Liz quickly, and headed toward the door. "Oh, hey!" he said, stopping as he caught sight of the music box on the coffee table. "You got it fixed? Already?"

"It wasn't really broken," Liz lied. "The hinge had come loose, but it went back together pretty easily."

"Good, I'm glad. You'll have to tell me the story behind this thing tonight." Tom smiled and dashed out the door.

The pancakes went out with the trash.

…:::…

Liz arrived at Reddington's residence du jour and was led into the kitchen. Reddington was standing at the counter, his back to her. Liz walked to the island in the center of the room and leaned against it. "Whatever you're making, are you making enough for two? I'm _starving_."

Reddington didn't look up from his task. "You haven't eaten yet? It's almost noon."

"No. Tom made pancakes for breakfast."

"You don't like pancakes?"

"I don't like _his_ pancakes," she corrected.

"Well, all I can offer you is what I'm making myself: pimento cheese sandwiches, toasted with the crusts cut off. Eartha Kitt's recipe. It's a _fantastic_ story—"

"—which I will gladly listen to in its entirety some other time," Liz interrupted, taking the sandwich Reddington had just made off of the plate on the counter. He watched her walk away with his food with a perturbed look on his face, but said nothing as he began to make a second one for himself.

Liz continued, unapologetically speaking around a mouthful of pimento cheese. "Today is the day you spill all your secrets regarding my husband. I know you've been doing your own research since you sent Ranko Zamani after him. You've shared very little of that with me. At this point, I propose we put all of our cards on the table and work together on solving the Tom Problem."

" _All_ of our cards?" Reddington asked, cutting the crusts off his new sandwich.

Liz swallowed. "All of our cards as they relate to Tom," she amended. "We're not tackling any other topics today. Just Tom." Liz sat down at the kitchen table. "The day we began working together you tried to have him killed. Why? What do you know?"

"Little more than you."

"Well, _that's_ vague," Liz said. "I'm going to need something more concrete than that."

Reddington sighed and joined Liz at the table. "Several years ago, it came to my attention that somebody was meddling in my business. To protect myself and my interests, I inventoried my vulnerabilities. I hired people to look for those who had been knocking on my door, so to speak."

"Was I one of those people? One of the people you found had been… looking in to your life?" Liz's jaw tightened. "Was _I_ the intended target that night?"

"At the time, I didn't have a name," Reddington continued as if she hadn't asked her question. "I used several different people in the information business to make some inquiries. Some were more successful than others. One in particular gave me your address, and said the man living there was working for the entity that had been causing trouble for me recently. I sent Zamani to find out who the man was working for and…send a message." The euphemism was an obvious one, and Liz felt a chill run down her arms. Reddington had sent someone to kill her husband. He'd ordered a man to murder someone in her home. Reddington saw the change in Liz's expression and added, "I didn't know the man was your husband."

"Is that supposed to make the fact that you instructed a man to kill someone you'd never met somehow more palatable to me?" Liz asked quietly.

"I'm not trying to make excuses for my actions. And I've been responsible for the death of many people over the years; you know that. You've watched it happen before, Agent Keen, right in front of you. This isn't new information."

"Did you consider the fact that the information trail that led to my house might not have been Tom's trail?" Liz asked, ignoring Reddington's last statement. "That it was _me_ , calling your colleagues and clients and contacts and lovers? That you had Tom attacked when really you should have sent Zamani after _me_?"

Reddington took a deep breath and let it out slowly, chewing a bite of his sandwich thoughtfully. "Since that night, I _have_ been able to connect you to some of the 'knocks on my metaphorical door'. But the reason I sent Zamani after Tom in the manner that I did was because, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there had been a few shots across my bow, and Tom had been the one aiming the canon. Yes, I've found evidence of you looking in to my past. But so far nothing you've done has been… malicious."

"I've _never_ tried to—"

"I know you haven't," Reddington cut her off, looking at her seriously.

"But Tom…" Liz shifted uncomfortably. "He _chose_ me. He inserted himself into my life because of you."

"I can only assume that's the case," Reddington agreed. "But how did he know you had an interest in me? How did he know you were a potential source of information? Did you ever discuss me with—"

" _Never_ ," Liz said vehemently, not even allowing him to finish his thought.

"Searches? On your laptop? Phone calls from the house? He might have overheard…?"

"I'm careful. _Very_ careful. But I can't promise you he didn't hack into my computer or tap a phone line. Until just recently, I had no idea what he was capable of, and in all honesty I didn't think I had to resort to espionage techniques to keep my laptop and phone calls—when I was alone in the house—secret from my elementary-school-teacher husband," she said, rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness of the situation.

"Fair enough," Reddington conceded.

They ate in silence for a moment before Reddington spoke up again, clearing his plate. "I'd be interested to know what Tom gave you for your birthday?"

"He wants to renew our vows," Liz said with a deadpan expression. "He wants to go away together. ' _Somewhere tropical'_ ," she quoted.

Reddington turned to look over his shoulder at her as he set his dish in the sink. "Things are unraveling for him. He's desperate to keep you close." He turned and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. "I think you've been presented with a unique opportunity. The people Tom works for are obviously very cautious. They operate slowly from the shadows. We could spend years tracking them to no avail, but now we have a chance to draw them out. Things will have to appear normal to Tom, to Cooper, and the others." He smiled at her and walked back to his seat. "Which is why you'll need a case."

…:::…

After briefing her colleagues at the Post Office on The Undertaker and the information Reddington had provided her with, Liz took a moment to call her brother-in-law, Craig, and invite him out for the weekend. It had been Reddington's idea to take Tom's offer of renewing their vows and run with it: do exactly what he asked, but speed up the timetable and take all opportunity to plan the details out of his hands. In addition to throwing Tom off balance with a surprise wedding, it gave them an opportunity to grab Craig. Because if Tom Keen was fake, Craig Keen most certainly was, too.

"But I don't want to renew our vows," she'd protested.

"The beauty part of all of this is that you probably won't have to," Reddington had assured her. "In case Craig calls Tom, though, your last minute invitation needs to sound plausible. You call Craig and tell him you're renewing your vows this weekend and you've bought him a plane ticket out here for tomorrow morning, but you're trying to surprise Tom with it, so you ask for his discretion. If Craig calls Tom to alert him, you're not doing anything other than what he asked of you. Tom will back up your story, essentially, by saying he was the one who suggested the vow renewal in the first place. But if things don't go according to plan in any way, you're going to have to invite some people to your apartment this weekend like you're actually going to go through with it. We should have the ability to take this little farce to its full conclusion. Just in case."

Liz had grudgingly agreed that the plan was a solid one.

Once again seeking privacy in the stairwell at work (she'd begun to think of it as Her Stairwell), Liz had called Craig and talked him into the next flight out—early the next morning—and assured him she'd pick him up at the airport.

That afternoon, Liz begged, and pleaded, and cajoled, and pointed out that if they got to Danny Moss—the Undertaker's next likely assassin—in time to stop him, they'd benefit from having a profiler present if negotiations were needed, and finally played the 'but it's my birthday' card in order to get Ressler to allow her to tag along in the field. The minute Ressler finally agreed, Liz was on the phone with Tom, explaining she still wasn't feeling great, and on top of that something came up at work and she'd be there late that night. Her birthday dinner would have to be postponed until later that week.

She found that she was desperate for any reason to avoid going home to her husband, especially on her birthday. She should get to spend it with someone she cared about, and someone who cared for _her_. Preferably the same person.

Since that wasn't an option, Ressler and his perennial bad attitude was still preferable to Tom, and by the end of the night, she had to admit she felt good: they had been able to track down Moss, and Liz had jumped in immediately, talking him down and getting him to drop his weapon very quickly. No loss of life, and now they had a solid lead on who was hiring these people to become end-of-life assassins. She'd even gotten a verbal pat on the back from Ressler as they drove back to the office. In true Ressler fashion, it wasn't much, but coming from him it was the equivalent of gushing praise.

…:::…

The next morning, Liz picked Craig up at the airport, smiling jovially and hugging him tightly as she exclaimed about how long it had been since he'd visited. She made the usual small talk on the way to his hotel, asking if he had anyone special in his life, inquiring about his job, and lamenting that neither one of them had any living parents to invite to their vow renewal. She asked a few gentle questions about Tom's parents, but Craig answered her vaguely, and she didn't press the subject.

He had two bags, and she offered to roll his carry-on upstairs if he'd be so kind as to let her use his bathroom before she ran off to yet another outdoor crime scene. "Would you mind?" she had begged, "I knew I shouldn't have had a third cup of coffee this morning, but Tom will tell you—I had a _long_ day yesterday!"

He'd agreed, and she followed him up to his room.

The minute they were inside the door, Liz rammed the suitcase she'd been rolling into the back of his knees, causing him to stumble forward. He turned around to face Liz, managing to keep his feet under him, and was met by a solid right hook across his jaw. Liz kicked the door shut behind her as Craig barreled forward, slamming his shoulder into her abdomen and driving her up against the hotel room wall with enough force to knock the wind out of her. She made the most out of the fact that he hadn't been able to pin her arms down, and landed several more punches to his face before he finally backed off, tripping over himself as he reversed. He ended up on the floor, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, but before he could stand, Liz was towering above him, her gun leveled at his head.

"You know, Craig, I thought our talk on the way here in the car was good, but there are just a _few_ more topics I want to cover..."

She dragged him to the bathroom, her weapon pressed to the back of his head in her right hand, while her left clutched a fistful of his hair, driving him forward. She kicked the back of his knees again once they reached the bathroom, and quickly handcuffed him to the exposed pipes below the sink.

"Who do you work for?" she demanded harshly, grabbing a water glass from above the minibar and forcibly wrapping his right hand around it. She set it aside to run the prints later.

"I don't know what you're talking about—" Craig tried.

" _Who do you work for_?" Liz repeated.

"Please, look this has got to be some—"

"I'm going to figure out who you are," she said. "Those fingerprints will probably come back as Craig Keen if I run them through the government databases, since Tom's just lead back to _his_ alias, huh? So let's get some DNA from you, too…" Liz leaned forward and dabbed at the blood on Craig's lip with a swab. She popped the swab into its container and bagged it, setting it next to the water glass. "Somebody provided you with an identity, a history; embedded you into my life. I want to know _who_ , and I want to know _why_."

…:::…

After a half hour of questioning, Liz's phone rang. "Ressler, hey, what's up?" Liz walked a few paces away from Craig. "Yeah, of course. No. I'll be right there." She hung up and turned back to the man handcuffed in the bathroom. He smirked at her.

"You didn't exactly think this through, did you?"

At that exact moment there was a knock on the door, and Liz called back to Craig as she opened the door for Reddington, "Actually… I did." Liz led Reddington toward the bathroom, Dembe bringing up the rear.

"Looks like we're a little late to the party!" Reddington said, enthusiastically looking at Craig on the floor. "You must be the brother-in-law."

"Ressler called. I have to step out." Liz motioned at Craig. "He isn't cooperating, but I got fingerprints and a DNA sample."

"DNA will be much more useful, but I _do_ know an absolute _artist_ with fingerprints—" Reddington began.

"Oh, no, you don't mean that Bosnian guy? Vlad… Vlad… what's his last name again?" Liz asked, frowning.

Reddington narrowed his eyes. "Cvetko. Vlad Cvetko. How do you know—?"

"He won't help _you_! Wasn't he the one whose wife you slept with?" Liz asked, looking at Reddington like he was crazy for considering asking the man for a favor.

"I—" Reddington looked briefly uncomfortable, but if Liz had blinked she would have missed it. His face spread into a self-satisfied smile, and he continued, "—you know, I could easily blame that whole night on the hashish and the grappa, but the truth is he's better off without her. She's fickle."

"They got back together," Liz informed him, deadpan.

"No. Really? Fadila went back to that funny little…?" Reddington raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Well, this actually makes things easier. He always used to ask if he could borrow this little villa in Dubrovnik I own; he wanted to take Fadila there for a long weekend. I'm sure a bribe will go a long way toward securing his forgiveness."

"He's not local, though, and even with—"

"I know, I know," Reddington frowned and waved a dismissive hand at Liz, shooing her toward the door. "I have someone in town; I'll hand the DNA off to her." As soon as the door closed behind her, Reddington looked down at the man handcuffed to the pipes and shook his head. "Aw, hell. Dembe, get the hacksaw. We're gonna have to take him out of here in pieces." When Craig blanched, Reddington began to laugh, tilting his head as he peered downward, amused. "I'm just kidding. But we _will_ get you to talk."

…:::…

Hours later, Liz returned to the hotel room to find Reddington sitting on a chair in the bathroom doorway, placidly watching Craig as he hissed and growled about Reddington staying away from his mother if he knew what was good for him.

"His mother?" Liz asked, coming to a stop at Reddington's side.

"Ah, Agent Keen. Welcome back. Yes, Benson got back to me quite quickly with the DNA, and we tracked down Christopher's only living relative with little difficulty."

"If you so much as _touch_ my mother—" the man on the floor spat before being interrupted.

"Then tell us who you work for," Liz jumped in. "I'm only stopping in here briefly, so I don't have a whole lot of patience right now, _Christopher_. Talk. _Now_. Or we bring Mom in." Even though Liz kept her gaze locked on her 'brother-in-law', she saw Reddington's head swing to look up at her, out of the corner of her eye.

"I get a phone call," he ground out, glaring up at Red and Liz. "They tell me where to go, and I go."

"Who tells you?" Liz asked.

"Different people. It's never the same person twice."

"Jolene Parker?" Liz pressed.

"I'm telling you I don't know names."

"Tell me about Tom."

"I don't know his real name. He's got a brother in Chicago. I've heard him talk about a woman, Niki."

"Niki? Is that some woman he sees?" Despite the way Tom made her skin crawl these days, she felt an irrational bolt of jealousy shoot through her.

"Do you think we sit around and we chat about it?" Craig asked snidely. "There a reason that his cover is that we're estranged and our parents are dead. There's a reason that there are no people in his life—because none of it is real."

Just then, the phone in the room began to ring.

"That's Tom," Craig said, nodding toward the sound in the main room. "He knows where I'm staying. It's only a matter of time before he's here."

The ringing stopped.

Liz tapped Reddington's shoulder. "Red… we need to get out of here."

The phone began to ring again, and after a beat Reddington pushed out of his chair and grabbed the entire phone, base and all. He looked at Dembe and nodded toward Craig. Dembe moved quickly, drawing his gun and training it on the man on the ground. Reddington walked toward Craig with the phone, and reminded him in a deep, quiet voice, "Your mother," before pushing the button to answer the call on speaker phone.

Liz held her breath. Her mind raced, listing all the ways this could go wrong.

"Hey," Craig said.

"Why didn't you pick up?" Tom was irritated.

"There's a situation. I'm handling it," Craig answered. "I just need time."

"Time for _what_?" Tom asked.

"What are you—my _wife_ , Tom?" Craig snarled, shifting his eyes to Liz. "Listen up. I just need…" He trailed off, and Liz held up two fingers. "Two hours. I'll explain everything then. Just sit tight. Don't panic."

"Easy for you to say. I'm the one who's accountable to Berlin."

Liz cut her eyes to Reddington, who shifted slightly, his expression changing for a split second. He hadn't heard of anyone or anything happening in Berlin before. This was new.

Tom sighed in frustration. "I'm coming to your hotel now." The line went dead.

"Tell me about Berlin," Reddington said, extending his left hand with the phone in it back to Dembe, who took it from him to replace on the table. " _Berlin_ ," Red repeated, stepping closer.

"I can't," Craig said, a note of helplessness creeping into his voice.

"What's in Berlin?" Red asked, narrowing his eyes. Craig shifted uncomfortably. He was starting to panic. Liz watched as his chest began to rise and fall faster as his breathing sped up. "Is the bank in Berlin?" Reddington pressed. When he got no answer, his voice hardened. " _Christopher… who's in Berlin?"_ Still nothing. "Dembe, we're moving the conversation elsewhere," he instructed suddenly, holding his hand out to Liz for the keys to her handcuffs, which she readily gave him. He leaned down and unfastened them, Dembe lifting his weapon again briefly as Craig was freed. "Wipe down the room," Red ordered as he reapplied the cuffs to Craig's wrists, pulled behind his back. Dembe grabbed a towel and went to work as Reddington turned to Liz. "Tell me about the building."

Liz took a deep breath. "The south elevator has no cameras, empties into the basement. Two doors past the mechanical room lead to the alleyway—"

At the sound of shattering glass, Liz and Red turned toward the window sharply, and Dembe rushed back into the room.

Liz stared silently across the room for a moment, her lips parted in shock, unable to process what had just happened. What kind of organization was so frightening that a man would take his own life by jumping out a window rather than give up information regarding his employers? Or was there a personal loyalty at stake? Was he protecting someone he loved within the organization?

"Well, then," Reddington's blasé voice cut the stunned silence in the room.

"That's it? 'Well then'? That's all you've got? What now?" Liz asked, turning to face Reddington as Dembe resumed hurriedly wiping down the bathroom. "What are you doing?" Liz asked as Red walked calmly to the chair where he'd left his things.

"Putting on my coat," he said unemotionally, picking up his hat from the chair.

"A man just jumped through the window," Liz pointed out, unnecessarily. "There's body on the sidewalk."

"Yes," Reddington agreed, taking her elbow and steering her toward the door. "And your husband, the police, and all the king's men will be here soon. I'm sure you don't care to stick around for that and explain, do you? I didn't think so. Dembe, I'll get her downstairs. After you're finished, grab the pretzels from the minibar."

Liz allowed herself to be led from the room, a small part of her brain pointing out that Reddington had thought of her immediately, not asking her to stay behind and help wipe down the room, and not telling her she was on her own as far as getaways were concerned. His immediate reaction was to take her with him. He felt protective, and he wasn't asking for anything in return. It seemed like it was just assumed she was part of his team now.

So there was that.

…:::…

"Keen! Where the hell are you?" Cooper barked over the phone as Dembe pulled out of the parking garage, Liz and Red in the backseat.

"I'm sorry, sir—" Liz gripped the door handle as Dembe took a turn quickly. "—I had some personal business to—"

"We'll talk about this later," Cooper said sternly. "Right now we need your help: Agents Ressler and Malik found Bobbit at the cemetery, and we don't have our psychology expert on hand."

"Sir, I really—"

"Save it, Agent Keen. Aram, connect her through to the com system."

"You're connected," Aram's voice came through the line.

"Keen, he's got a bomb strapped to his chest and the trigger in his hand," Ressler sounded out of breath. "Ideas?"

"Um… he's… he's alone?" Liz squeezed her eyes shut to concentrate, trying to catch up with the situation.

"No, he's here with Osborn. Bobbit's his own final assassin. Snipers en route, but we don't have _time_ —"

"Bobbit… he… he wants justice, he wants Osborn to pay. Pay for what was done to him. We need to punish Osborn so Bobbit doesn't _have_ to."

"What are you suggesting: that _I_ shoot him?" Ressler asked scornfully.

"No, no—arrest him," Liz ordered, opening her eyes. "Put your gun down, ignore Bobbit, and march Osborn away in handcuffs," she said quickly.

"That's not going to work—" Meera's voice chimed in. "Ressler, wait, what are you—"

Liz swallowed, and stayed silent, listening with baited breath to the voices on the coms. Ressler, calling for Bobbit to stay calm. Reading Osborn his Miranda rights, explaining harshly that they knew about the clinical trials, the people who had died. Ressler's breathing was coming more heavily, and she could tell he was walking when a loud noise suddenly made her pull her phone from her ear. After a split second, she brought it back up and shouted into it. "Ressler? Ressler! Aram, what just happened?"

Reddington watched as Liz let out a shaky breath and her shoulders slumped forward slightly. "Yeah," she said quietly. "Of course. Right away."

Liz hung up the phone.

"So?" Reddington asked.

"Bobbit's dead."

Liz looked up and saw Dembe's expectant eyes watching her in the rearview mirror. "And everyone else?" he asked.

Liz managed a tense but relieved smile. "No one else got hurt."

Dembe gave her a smile and turned his full attention back to the road. Liz looked to Reddington, who was also smiling at her, his head tilted to the side, regarding her intently. After a moment he reached across the seat and placed his hand on her knee. "Well done," he said, his voice betraying the fact that she'd impressed and surprised him. He gave her knee a squeeze, and widened his smile slightly, but briefly, before withdrawing his hand and turning his gaze out the window.

Liz allowed herself a moment of relief and happiness before reality set back in, settling in her stomach like a weight. "Dembe, you'll need to drop me back at the Post Office, please," she said. She sighed, and looked out her window, mirroring Reddington. "I don't even know where I'm going to spend the night tonight," she mumbled.

Reddington turned to her sharply. "At home. With your husband."

Liz cringed. "No. Not after what happened today, not after… I can't do this anymore. I can't look at him, let alone touch him."

"Be patient. With Craig, things have been set in motion. How Tom reacts will tell us a great deal. You need to stay the course."

"I don't think I can. He _attacked_ me in the warehouse he's been using as a base of operations to _spy_ on me. _The thought of sleeping in the same bed with him…_ " Liz said venomously, her lips pulled back in a grimace.

"We learned a lot today, Agent Keen," Reddington assured her. "But Tom doesn't know most of it. He knows you brought Craig into town, and he knows you're planning a surprise party with a vow renewal for this weekend. Did you invite some people like I told you to?"

"Yeah. Not enough, though." Liz looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I'll make a few more calls this evening before I go home."

"You take care of the guest list. Don't worry about anything else: I'll make arrangements to have champagne and flowers delivered to your home on Saturday."

Liz looked back up at Reddington, who had turned his attention back out the window. "Okay," she said, her voice despondent as she slouched further down in her seat, a sense of dread creeping up the back of her neck. "Thanks."

…:::…

TBC.

Author's Note: Sorry about the scene with Liz, Red, Dembe, and Craig in the hotel. I know it was almost verbatim. Couldn't be helped, though. Had to stay as it was.


	18. The Pavlovich Brothers

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

…:::…

Chapter 18: The Pavlovich Brothers

…:::…

The next time Liz placed a tracker on Tom, she went through Reddington for the hardware, instead of Aram, and rather than placing it in a toy, she went straight for his keys. She wanted to know exactly where he was at all times. No more messing around.

"He knows something's off," Liz said, sitting in a chair opposite Reddington, both staring at the pile of pictures and evidence in front of them, as if the act of watching the pile could somehow will concrete answers into existence.

"What makes you say that?" Reddington asked, picking up a picture of Jolene parker and squinting at it.

"I can feel it. I _know_ him," Liz said with conviction.

"Tom is on his heels," Reddington sighed, tossing the photograph down on the pile again. "He's behaving erratically. After Craig's death, he's probably panicked, because he doesn't know who did it. We still don't know if killing Jolene Parker was part of his plan, or a spur-of-the-moment decision." Reddington leaned back in his chair and look across the living room of his safe house at Liz.

"You said they most likely worked for the same organization. If they did, why would he murder her…?" Liz pondered aloud.

"Perhaps he was ordered to. Perhaps he did something wrong, disobeyed an order, and she found out. Maybe he's gone further than he was authorized to go." Reddington shook his head. "Or perhaps he's just… out of control, irrational… Paranoid and reactionary. But whatever it is, he's scrambling for a foothold, and therein lies our opportunity to wait… and to watch."

"' _Wait and watch_ '?" Liz repeated, her voice hardening. "I thought your plan was to bring him in? You said we were done with this!"

Reddington pursed his lips. "So you want to cancel the plans to go ahead with the party and renew your vows on Saturday?"

"Red, I can't do it." A note of desperation crept into Liz's tone. "I can't go through with that. Not only will I have to fake falling in love with him all over again, _knowing_ what he is, but what do you think is going to happen Saturday night? After the ceremony? We'll be newlyweds, and how far do you expect me to take this? If I don't want him to suspect anything, I'll have to have sex with him." Reddington worked his jaw, and continued to stare down at the pile of papers on the coffee table. " _Look at me_ ," Liz demanded. She waited until Reddington obeyed before she continued, "You understand what you're asking me to do? You know how _filthy_ that will make me feel?"

Reddington seemed to mull his options over for a moment. "Then suggest an alternative to somehow back out of this, now that Tom knows you're planning it. He knows you flew his brother in for the ceremony. Friends have been invited—are you going to call them all back and _uninvite_ them? What will be your explanation?"

Liz grimaced, hating that he was right. "Promise me we can get Tom _out of my life_ as soon as possible," she begged, looking at him imploringly.

"I promise," Reddington said. "But Tom isn't the only reason I called you here this morning. I'm afraid there's something quite timely afoot. The Pavlovich brothers are back in town."

"The team from the bridge that grabbed the general's daughter from me? During our first case with you?"

"The very same."

As Reddington launched into a lengthy explanation, involving a Chinese scientist named Xiaoping Li, and the most likely reason why the brothers had been hired to obtain her, Liz tried her hardest to pay attention. The more time she spent with Reddington, the more she admired him. He was charming, and witty, and an incredible storyteller. His intelligence kept her constantly on her toes, which she enjoyed, but at times it also frightened her. The good man she believed lived at the core of him was obscured more often than she was comfortable with; more often than she expected. The pragmatist in her understood that there were very justifiable reasons for the more violent and unethical acts he'd performed over the years, but the not-so-small part of her that maintained a thriving savior complex wanted to reach out to him, cup his face in her hands, and breath against his cheek that she knew him, _really_ knew him, and that she was willing to put herself in the line of fire to keep him from having to compromise the good man she knew him to be ever again.

She watched his hands as his story became more animated, and wished she didn't know quite so much about psychology. Her marriage had crumbled almost the instant another man she'd had a growing obsession with appeared in her life. Literally within arms reach. She wondered if her feelings for Reddington were entirely due to the years of research, of following his life and career, or based solely on the fact that he just happened to be the man she was working closest with as she cut emotional ties with Tom.

It was probably a combination of the two.

Would she feel this way if Tom was just a fourth grade teacher? A good, simple man?

Would she feel this way if she wasn't Reddington's liaison to the FBI? What if Ressler was the one working with him on every case, and she was still relegated to research and advice from the confines of her desk chair at the office?

…would she still feel this way if he didn't look so damn good in a suit?

…:::…

The rest of the day seemed to crawl by at a snail's pace. Liz briefed the team on the Pavlovich brothers, and Ressler and Meera left with a tactical team to change the route Li was to take on her way into the country. They were too late, and as they called in the details, explaining the brothers and Li had left in a helicopter, Cooper glared across the room at Liz. The second the call ended, he called her up to his office.

She wasn't sure how long he read her the riot act about coming in late with intel, but it felt like an age. She wanted to bring Reddington into it, explain that he was the one who withheld the details, and that she had come directly into the office as soon as he'd told her the brothers were in town… But she stayed quiet, accepting the reprimands and castigation silently. Cooper vilified Reddington as a cowboy who delighted in playing with the FBI's time and resources, and she was accused of enjoying the ride he was taking her on a little too much.

She really couldn't argue with that last part, though she didn't admit to it aloud.

Hours later—hours full of paperwork, stale coffee, dread about her upcoming performance with her husband in front of all of their friends, and several text messages to Reddington that went infuriatingly ignored by him—Meera and the team got back to the blacksite.

The minute they walked in Cooper strode toward them, his eyes on Meera. "Agent Malik, you want to tell me why the director of national intelligence just called me? What don't I know about this case?"

Meera, looking somewhat guilty for withholding information, began, "The program Li was working on… it's germ weaponry. Banned by nearly every nation on Earth. It's called White Fog…"

Liz's phone buzzed, and she breathed in expectantly when she saw it was Reddington calling. Trying to step back from the group unobtrusively, she answered the call and murmured a greeting quietly, her head down as she walked quickly back to her desk.

"Where are you?" Reddington asked.

"Busy. The brothers… they took Xiaoping Li. We're—"

"Your husband is not in school."

"Wait, what? Where is he?" Internally, Liz felt a flash of self-recrimination, disappointed in herself for being so easily distracted from the goal of saving a scientist whose life hung in the balance.

"Meet me at 9th and Constitution."

"The National Archives?" Liz asked. She immediately looked at the team, and her stomach sank as she realized she couldn't leave. Cooper had his eyes fixed on her as Meera continued to talk, and Liz dropped her gaze to the floor, turning her back toward the others as if she was somehow less noticeable that way. "I can't—Red, I can't," Liz said, desperately wanting to turn and walk straight to the elevator. "Cooper's pissed that we lost Li, and if I try to duck out right now, it'll be _both_ of our asses. Can't you follow him?"

"My people are following him, yes. I just thought you'd want to…" There was silence on the other end for a moment. "Nevermind. Good luck finding your scientist." The line went dead.

_Damn._

…:::…

Liz was exhausted, and her nerves were sufficiently frayed that when she walked in the door, even though she was expecting Tom to be home, finding him sitting at the kitchen table with her music box in front of him still made her nearly jump out of her skin. She set her keys down, took off her jacket, and attempted what she knew to be a shaky smile. "Tom. You scared me."

Tom gave her a tight-lipped smile back. "You know, you never did tell me the story about this thing," he said, indicating the music box. "Where did it come from?"

"It was mine, when I was little. My aunt sent it to me as a birthday present. She's been going through my dad's things…" Liz trailed off, and swallowed. She walked to the table and sat down across from Tom. "How was your day?" she asked, grasping for a topic change. She felt like she had battery acid in her mouth and coils wound around her muscles, and she was fairly sure if she had to bear another evening making conversation with Tom she was going to scream.

"Good. Busy. You know Billy Salter? He was acting up again because his mom keeps packing these fruit roll-ups, and they give him this satanic sugar high, you know, so…"

"Hmm. Didn't get a chance to be anywhere else? Ressler was at the National Archives today, and thought he saw you there…?" Liz said, suddenly furious at Reddington for making her continue this farce. She knew her line of questioning was heavy-handed and inadvisable, but she didn't care.

"Nope. School all day," Tom said, staring evenly back at her.

"Huh. Well, he's only met you a handful of times; he must have been mistaken. Or maybe you have a doppelganger out there." Liz felt tensed, and ready. For what, she wasn't sure. "Your pot's going to boil over," she pointed out, inclining her head toward the stove without looking at it.

Tom pushed back from the table and walked into the kitchen. He turned the burner off, and slowly spun to face Liz. "You know… I really don't want to cook tonight. Tell you what. Why don't you… grab a couple beers from the fridge, and I'm going to walk down to that new Thai place on the corner. Let's just do take out tonight. What do you say?"

Liz nodded. "Sounds great," she said, forcing a smile. She wondered how far they were going to take this. They both knew the other one was well aware of the game they were playing, but neither was willing to be the first to break character.

Tom nodded. "Okay, well, I'm going to take Hudson with me. He's been cooped up all day." Liz stood, and watched as Tom called the dog to him, attached his leash, and walked toward the front door.

Liz cast around for a plan, a course of action, _anything_ , but she found herself rooted to the spot, watching as her husband walked toward the door. She knew if she let him leave, he'd be _gone_. She should try to keep him here, but no words came to her lips, and her breath sounded loud in her ears, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

The door clicked closed behind Tom and Hudson, and in that instant Liz felt like she'd been released. She dashed for her purse and pulled out her phone.

"Agent Keen, I'm glad you called," Reddington said as he picked up, his tone serious. "I'm going to need you to stop by tonight—I have something I want to discuss—"

"Red, Tom's gone—he's _gone_ ," she interrupted. "I screwed up, he knew something was wrong, and I couldn't stop him, I just—he left, he's gone—"

"Slow down—"

" _I screwed up._ And he took my dog— _dammit_ —why did I let him walk out the door?" Liz sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"What did you say that tipped him off?"

"I mentioned the National Archives; I said one of my colleagues saw someone who looked like him, and asked if he'd been there today, which—I _know_ —was a _really_ bad move—"

"Agent Keen," Reddington interrupted harshly. "Where are you?"

"Home, I'm at home."

"And you know he's gone? How do you know? Did you see him get in a car?"

" _He knows I know_ , Red. The charade is over. He's probably on his phone calling his handler for an extraction right now—"

"And he _just_ left? When?"

"Less than two minutes ago. Why? Please don't tell me you want me to try to tail him, because I'm—"

"Did he take his keys?" Reddington's voice was hard.

"Yes."

" _He didn't leave._ I'm looking at the live tracking data right now, and he's still there— _he's at your back door_ —"

"He's _what_?" Liz immediately spun and hit the panel of three light switches on the wall, plunging the kitchen and downstairs into darkness. She pressed her back against the wall and bit her lip to keep from cursing. She didn't have her gun on her.

"I'm sending someone—" Reddington's voice was tight and fast. "Can you get out of the house? Do you have a weapon?"

Liz reached forward in the darkness and grabbed the pot of hot water from the stove and stepped back to the wall. She heard the click of the back door opening, and stayed silent, taking a deep breath.

" _Do you have a weapon_? Agent Keen? _Liz—"_

Liz hung up the phone and slid it softly into the back pocket of her pants. She listened carefully to the soft footsteps crossing the floor, coming closer. He'd either head upstairs, or into the kitchen, looking for her.

A shadow passed through the dim light from the streetlight outside, and she gripped the handle of the pot tighter. He was coming to check the kitchen first.

As soon as she saw the edge of his form move slowly around the edge of the wall she was hugging, she swung the pot at him with all of her strength.

Tom growled in pain as hot water splashed over his arms, and up into his face. He stepped back, squinting his eyes shut, and Liz took the opportunity to take another swing at him with her spur-of-the-moment weapon. This time, his hands—one of them holding a gun, she realized—weren't in the way, and she hit him squarely in the temple.

He went down like a sack of potatoes.

…:::…

It was truly amazing how heavy her husband was when he was unconscious. Liz dragged him to the front entryway and handcuffed his arms around the banister. He started to come around just as she secured the second cuff into place.

Liz backed up and perched in the darkness on the arm of the couch. "Two years. That's a long assignment," she said.

Tom winced and tried to bring a hand to his head where he'd been hit, but found his wrists bound. He pulled at the handcuffs experimentally. "We've been married for two years, Liz. The assignment started well before that."

"Where's my dog?" Liz asked.

Tom said nothing.

"You'd think I'd be happy right now. I mean, I'm relieved, not to have to do this dance with you anymore, but… Shouldn't I be happier that you're going to spend the rest of your life in prison? You'd think I'd get some satisfaction from that, but I'm having trouble. Because at the moment, I just don't think there's a sentence, or punishment, or revenge that could ever come close to making up for what you've done."

"I was doing my job," Tom stated matter-of-factly.

"Your _job_? That was our _life_!" Liz spat, her voice rising. "We were going to have a _baby_ —you _begged_ me to have a baby!"

"I was doing my job," he repeated.

"Stop talking about your job!" she demanded. She could feel her phone buzzing in her back pocket. She reached for it, declined the call, and set it down roughly on the coffee table.

"Is that him? Was that Reddington?" Tom asked, looking at the phone. "What's the deal between you two? What's your obsession with him? It's going to bug me that I never figured it all out. I know you've known him a long time… since before you were adopted. Is he back for you? You guys got, like, a, uh, 'daddy-daughter' thing going on?"

Liz stood and walked into the kitchen.

Tom's smirk could be heard in his voice. "What's your plan? You going to have Daddy come over? Is he going to make me talk?"

"No, I don't need him for that," Liz said grimly, walking back toward Tom, holding a wrench in one hand. "I can do it myself. Who do you work for?"

"I have nothing to say," Tom said, seemingly unconcerned.

Liz nodded as if she'd expected that answer, and moved behind him, fitting the wrench around one of his thumbs. "Who do you work for?" she repeated.

"Come on, Liz," Tom scoffed. "You don't have it in you."

Liz twisted the wrench and felt—rather than _heard_ —the bones in his thumb crack as he cried out and twisted, his arms tensing and his back bowing. His cries melted into cold, slightly-hysterical laughter before dying down to a harsh chuckle. "You broke my thumb," Tom said, his expression a cross between a smile and a grimace.

"Yeah, I did," Liz replied glibly. "If you're looking for sympathy, you might want to start with honesty. Here's an example of honesty, Tom. You've been making me pancakes for more than two years. _I hate your pancakes_."

Tom nodded, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You want honest? Here's one. If you're going to handcuff somebody, don't break their thumb—"

Before Liz knew what was happening, Tom had launched forward with a cry as his broken hand slipped free of the cuff. He hit her hard, tossing her back across the coffee table, which splintered under their weight and sent them both sprawling on the floor. Liz scrambled to her feet, but Tom grabbed one ankle and pulled, bringing her back down onto her knees. She pushed forward, trying to get to her gun, which was lying on the entry hall table, but Tom landed hard on her back, his arms encircling her. She threw her head backwards, butting into his nose, and he cried out, but didn't let go. He lifted Liz easily off the ground and twisted her, dropping her hard on her back on the floor.

The wind knocked out of her, Liz lay gasping for a moment before Tom grabbed a handful of her hair and began to drag her. She kicked out one of her legs, catching him hard on the side of his knee. His grip faltered, and she took the opportunity to land a solid punch into his midsection. He huffed, but stayed standing. He pulled his good arm back, and even though she saw it coming, Liz wasn't fast enough to avoid the hit to her jaw.

…:::…

She came to in the same position she'd had Tom in moments before: handcuffed to her own banister.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Liz," Tom was saying, his gun in his hand. She looked quickly toward the entry hall table, but her gun was gone. Glancing back at Tom, she saw it tucked into the waistband of his pants.

She scoffed, and raised her eyebrows. "Your right hook would seem to tell a different story," she growled.

"My job was never to hurt you," Tom continued, ignoring her comment. "I'm one of the good guys. Reddington is not who you think."

"You have no idea who I think Reddington is," Liz snarled. "If whoever you're working for is looking to punish him for something, then _they're_ the ones who are mistaken about him."

Tom shook his head. "You know a lot about him, Liz, yeah, I get that. But are you sure you know it _all_?" With a sigh, he started for the door. Just before he clicked it closed behind him, he looked back at her, his expression almost sad. "Goodbye, Liz."

…:::…

Five minutes after Tom left, a man came in the back door, turned on the lights, and walked slowly toward Liz, his hands held up. "Mr. Reddington sent me," he said. "Do you have the keys to the handcuffs?"

Liz nodded. Once she was free, the man nodded at her and backed away, explaining Reddington was on his way, but he would wait outside until then.

"Thank you," Liz managed as the man disappeared out the door. She stooped to pick up her cell phone, noting five missed calls from Reddington, and called him back.

Reddington skipped 'hello' entirely. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice serious.

"Yeah. I'm going to have a wicked bruise on my jaw, but other than that…"

"I sent someone—"

"He's here. Thank you. He's still out front."

"I see him. We're pulling up now."

Liz ended the call and waited until Reddington walked in the front door. She caught sight of Dembe's shoulder before Reddington closed the door behind himself. Apparently this was going to be a private conversation. Liz wondered how much more admonishment she was going to have to endure today. After her meeting with Cooper earlier, she felt like she'd already had her fair share.

She sighed and walked to the kitchen table. She sat, and gently kicked the chair next to her, pushing it away from the table in a silent invitation for Reddington to take it. He walked past it without pause, passing into the kitchen. He returned with a cold pack, picked up one of the linen napkins from the table to wrap it in, and handed it to Liz.

She looked up at him, standing above her.

"You were right about the bruise," he explained, his eyes fixed on her jaw.

Liz sighed and held it to her face. "He's gone. My husband is gone."

"Your husband never existed."

"I'm glad. I'm glad the charade is over."

Reddington finally moved to sit down in the offered chair, placing a file folder on the table between them. "You've had a rough night. I understand… from the emotional point of view, this must feel like an extraordinary violation and betrayal. But you should try to keep in mind… for Tom it was business."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?" Liz asked, confused. "I just said I was glad he's gone. I thought you'd have a lecture for me about losing an asset; about not being careful enough tonight—spooking him and then letting him get away."

"You married him."

"What's your point?" Liz snapped. Her patience was running thin.

"You fell in love with him."

"That was before I knew what he was—"

"Agent Keen… Liz… you fell in love with a man, you married him, and he lied to you and betrayed you."

"If you _are_ trying to make me feel better, this is a strange way to do it."

"You were considering adopting a child with him, even though _you_ didn't want one, because _he_ wanted one, and you cared enough to take that journey with him. He was the one person you chose in your life who you thought could make you happy; who could make you feel safe."

"Yeah," Liz scoffed and rolled her eyes, adjusting the ice pack. "And what does that say about me?"

"It says you have a good heart, and you're willing—not only to sacrifice and compromise for the people you love, but you're also willing to allow yourself to be vulnerable in the pursuit of meaningful connections and partnerships."

"I know. It's a weakness. I'll work on it," Liz mumbled.

"No," Reddington shook his head. "I was going to say it takes a brave person to do that. Someone braver than me." Reddington didn't smile, and fixed Liz with a serious gaze. "Right now you're angry, and with good reason. But you should also remember… if at any point you feel the urge to grieve for the relationship you lost… you've got a good reason to do that, too."

Liz just stared at Reddington, at a complete loss for words.

"Now, like I said, you've had quite a day… But something came into my possession this afternoon that I'm going to have to ask you about. I've been looking into the time between Tom's flight being rerouted to Tulsa, and his arrival in Nebraska for your father's funeral. There were discrepancies, and I still have some phone calls to make, but my contact was able to acquire…" Reddington paused as he picked up the file folder between them and opened it. He pulled out the drawings that had been at Sam's bedside in the hospital; Liz's childhood drawings of Reddington. "I need an explanation for these," he said firmly, spreading the sketches out across the table.

Liz felt a cold chill run down her back. She did _not_ need this right now. "We don't have time for this, Red. We lost Tom tonight, and I'm only home for a few hours of sleep and a shower before I'm supposed to be back at the office. Xiaoping Li is still missing, and if we don't find her—if she gets sent back to the Chinese—she's gonna die."

"The pictures," Reddington insisted, pointing at them.

"Did you hear what I just said?" Liz asked, pulling the ice pack away from her face. "These pictures _don't matter right now_."

"We haven't lost Tom."

Liz paused for a moment, digesting what was said. "This whole time, you've never let him out of your sight," Liz said with a realization. "Your people are following him now. The man who came in here and unlocked my handcuffs?"

"You were in handcuffs?"

Liz glared at Reddington, who sighed and bobbed his head. "Yes, he's one of the tails I'd hired for Tom. Not at all combat savvy, though, so I apologize—I couldn't send him in to help you until either Tom left, or you subdued him, in which case you wouldn't have needed him."

"So you have people on him still? Right now?"

"Yes."

"You don't want him brought in. You're hoping he'll lead you back to whoever hired him in the first place."

Reddington pushed the drawings toward Liz across the table. "Explain the drawings, Agent Keen."

Liz crossed her arms. "I'm not discussing this with you tonight, Red. I've had a hell of a day, and unless it concerns the names on your Blacklist, I'm not—"

"Fine. I have a new name for you. The Kingmaker."

"A new—? You aren't listening at all, are you? We're not even done bringing in the Pavlovich brothers! Xiaoping Li is still out there, and you're giving us a new case?" Liz asked incredulously.

"Don't worry so much about the Pavlovich brothers—" Reddington waved a hand dismissively, frowning with distaste at Liz's myopic view of the situation. "—sometimes they can actually be quite useful. For instance, if we ever need to forcibly bring in Tom. I'll probably enlist their services."

"And Xiaoping Li?"

"They're probably putting her on a cargo ship."

"So… what? Look through the manifests, timetables, shipping routes…?"

"She isn't cargo, Agent Keen, she's contraband. This is a smuggling operation. And nothing gets smuggled in or out of the Chesapeake without Rolph Cisco knowing about it. Have Donald pay him a visit." Liz stood and began to walk to the door, but Reddington grabbed her bicep with a firm hand as she passed and stopped her. "Call him. You're going to stay here and talk to me tonight."

…:::…

TBC.


	19. The Kingmaker Part 1

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: I'm letting most of the cases mostly fade into the background at this point, because let's face it: the characters are what we're all here for, right? That said, the final chapters _have_ to focus on the Blacklister a bit more, because it's Berlin! BERLIN! I did it! I made it to the finale of season one! This has been a crazy-involved endeavor, and I appreciate all the love and support and reviews and kudos I've gotten so far, because I'm flattered and frankly a little bit amazed that people have stuck with me this long. :) Part two of Kingmaker should be posted tomorrow (the length of this thing got away from me)!

…:::…

Chapter 19: The Kingmaker Part 1

…:::…

_Previously: "Now, like I said, you've had quite a day… But something came into my possession this afternoon that I'm going to have to ask you about. I've been looking into Tom's flight that was rerouted to Tulsa, and his arrival time in Nebraska for your father's funeral. There were discrepancies, and I still have some phone calls to make, but my contact was able to acquire…" Reddington paused as he picked up the file folder between them and opened it. He pulled out the drawings that had been at Sam's bedside in the hospital; Liz's childhood drawings of Reddington. "I need an explanation for these," he said firmly, spreading the sketches out across the table._

…:::…

Liz stood, ready to drag her exhausted, bruised body back to the office to continue work on the case with Ressler. Xiaoping Li needed to be found before she was smuggled out of the country, and Reddington had just given them the best tip they'd had all day. Not only was she grateful for the help with the case, but it gave her an excuse to leave the conversation—and those drawings—behind for another few hours.

But Reddington had a different plan, and he grabbed her bicep with a strong hand as she passed, stopping her. "Call him. You're going to stay here and talk to me tonight."

"No, I'm not, Red," she said, pulling at her arm. Reddington's grip tightened painfully, and he stood, firmly pushing her backwards and down into the chair she'd vacated. She looked up at him with a mix of shock and anger. "How dare you come into _my_ house and—"

"I've tortured and killed people in their own homes before. Usually for nothing more tangible than the kind of information I'm requesting from _you_." Reddington stayed standing a moment longer before returning to his chair, satisfied that Liz wasn't going to try to leave again. "The drawings."

"Are none of your business right now," Liz said evenly, trying not to panic.

"They're of _me_ ," Reddington shot back.

"Are they?" Liz narrowed her eyes.

"You drew them," Reddington accused.

"Are they signed?" Liz asked.

"When did you draw those pictures, Agent Keen?" Reddington's voice gained an even harsher edge. "And why was your father in possession of them?"

"Red, I'm sorry, but I can't discuss this with you right now. You're going to have to be—"

"If you know what's good for you, you will not suggest that I be ' _patient_ '," Reddington said in a low growl.

Liz fell silent. She hated having to keep these secrets, but if they started discussing how she knew Raymond Reddington, he'd end up with an even larger price on his head. She looked at him, her expression stricken and remorseful. So often she forgot that she was dealing with a killer. A violent survivalist, having made his way in the world—and underworld—for the last twenty-five years due to his ability to out-wit, intimidate, and harm. She didn't want to be scared of him, but the look in his eyes made a flicker of worry dance in her gut.

"The sketches aren't important, Red," she whispered finally. "Right now? They're a distraction, and a dangerous one. If I explain those drawings, you will end up with a target on your back so big that I won't be able to protect you."

Reddington gave a sharp, derisive laugh, and smiled coldly, shaking his head. "I'm fully capable of protecting myself, Agent Keen. I don't need _you_ for that."

"You wouldn't have turned yourself in to the FBI if you could protect yourself," Liz leveled at him.

"Watch your tone," Reddington warned venomously, his expression dark.

"It's not _my_ tone, Red," Liz said, raising her eyebrows. "Someone was spending a lot of time and energy trying to depreciate your business—and still is—and before you showed up on our doorstep, you had no idea who it was, or what they wanted. You were taking so many hits that you realized you needed an ally. You needed protection. You needed an asset whose loyalties were more predictable than your usual contacts, so you could investigate the source of these… attacks. You knew the FBI had a task force dedicated to you, and you also knew your wealth of information regarding the criminal underworld would be enough to keep you out of a tiny cell with no windows."

Reddington was sitting completely still, his face an unreadable mask. Liz knew this tactic could blow up in her face pretty spectacularly, but now that she'd started, she found herself unable—or maybe just unwilling—to stop.

"You turned yourself in so you could avail yourself of our resources. You've been trying to track down who's responsible for these smaller hits before they get close enough to actually take a chunk out of you. Tom, Gina Zanetakos, Jolene Parker… they all worked for somebody. And it's no secret at this point that you're working with the FBI. Hell, just take Madeline Pratt. She's a woman scorned, and she's also no stranger to passing around information when it suits her. And she's just one person. You know people are talking. How much more of this can you withstand, Red? Your _friends_ are probably even talking. Shouldn't you be more concerned about _that_ right now?"

"I don't _have_ any friends," Reddington said dismissively. Liz could tell she'd struck a nerve, and had come close enough to the truth to rattle him, despite his continued control of his outward appearance.

"Well, you might not have any left in the more nefarious circles you're used to running in, but you do have friends, Red," Liz said, her voice softening. "You have me."

Reddington gave a frustrated sigh, leaning an elbow on the table and crossing his legs. He looked away, across the living room, but his eyes were unfocussed. After a moment he licked his lips and bobbed his head back in Liz's direction, resigned. His gaze fell on her bruised jaw, and he gestured at the abandoned ice pack on the table. When Liz picked it up and replaced it on her face, Reddington began grudgingly, "The Kingmaker."

"Tell me about him," Liz said promptly, relieved she'd been able to redirect him for the time being.

"Emil Dusek is a politician in Prague. He was recently arrested under suspicion of murder. I believe he was framed."

"And you want us to prove his innocence?" Liz asked doubtfully.

"Goodness, no, what the hell do you think you could you do from here? No. Dusek is lost. But he was targeted. By the Kingmaker, I believe, in order to weaken my… _interests_ overseas, and cost me a great deal of time and money. What I want to know is who retained him."

"You think this Kingmaker caused trouble for some politician in your pocket in order to get to you? And you also think whoever hired him was responsible for Tom and Jolene Parker and Gina Zanetakos and all the rest?"

"Yes."

Liz nodded, and stood, but didn't walk away. "Well, then. Let's get the FBI to arrest him, hmm?" The way Reddington looked up at her, Liz could tell he hadn't expected it to be so easy to bring her on board with this case. Internally, she shook her head in exasperation, wondering when he would finally realize she was on his team, for better or for worse, and that—increasingly—everything she did… was for him.

…:::…

The next morning, Liz woke up to a pounding headache. She supposed that was par for the course after the beating she'd taken from Tom the night before. She wondered briefly if she might have gotten a concussion when he knocked her out.

Before to going to bed, she'd called Ressler and passed on the information regarding Xiaoping Li, and their new case. He'd been predictably peeved at Reddington's gall, saddling them with a new Blacklister before the prior case had been closed. "Think of yourself like a doctor," Liz had groaned into the phone, flopping back on to her bed, still in her street clothes. "You're on call, and sometimes a second heart attack comes in before you've stabilized the first one." Ressler had grumbled something about the difference in pay scale between himself and a doctor, and hung up.

Liz took something for her head, jumped in the shower, and headed to the office. By the time she got there, Ressler and Meera had already left, confident about the likely location of Xiaoping Li. She and Aram provided support over coms, researching the Kingmaker in their downtime, and after the woman had been safely recovered by the team, Liz grabbed her coat and headed for the door, calling back to Aram that she was going to take an early lunch to check in with Reddington on the new case.

…:::…

"Jamie, tell your people I'll have an answer by the end of the week, but whether or not we do business, I'm keeping all the samples," Reddington said jovially to the man who passed Liz as she stepped into the foyer of Reddington's newest temporary residence. "Ah, Lizzie, perfect timing. Say hello to Jamie."

Liz faltered slightly. ' _Lizzie_ '? "Hello," she managed, turning to watch as the man exited through the front door. She spun back to Reddington, her eyebrows raised. "' _Lizzie_ '?"

"Well, I couldn't very well call you 'Agent Keen' in front of a drug dealer, now could I?" Reddington said, looking at her as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

At that point, Liz got a chance to look at the bags and boxes and food and plants spread across the large dining table. "What is all this…?"

"Cannabis," Reddington replied matter-of-factly, walking past the mess and Dembe, who sat at one end of the table, plowing through a tub of ice cream. The seated man ignored Liz completely as she passed him, following Reddington. "Jamie's trying to form a huge consortium of farms and warehouses outside Denver and having a little trouble securing the financing, so I would be the bank." Reddington led Liz into a small sitting room and shut the door behind them. "I'd offer you an edible, but we have work to do."

Liz shook her head and resisted rolling her eyes. "We recovered Xiaoping Li this morning. She's going to be fine. Meera will probably be tied up with her debriefing for the rest of the day once they get back to the office."

"Congratulations," Reddington said, seating himself in an impressive wingback chair.

Liz took a moment to look around the room. "So who usually lives here?"

"Oh, yes, please excuse the house. My host spends a tremendous amount of money on all the wrong things." Reddington waved a hand at the floor. "You should _see_ the pool he's got downstairs. I'd be bobbing around in there now if it weren't for my job as a lifeguard my junior year in high school. Had to give mouth to mouth to Mrs. Beerman. She belched up a lungful of corned beef and chlorine. I haven't been in a pool since."

"What percentage of your stories are just adorable anecdotes you come up with on the spot to sound charming and chatty? Put whoever you're speaking to at ease?" Liz asked, her eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me?" Reddington replied.

"You were in the Navy. You've been in lots of pools since junior year of high school."

"Oh, you're no fun," Reddington said, wincing. "Fine—to business. Have you made any progress on the Kingmaker?"

Liz stifled a smile. "You said he traveled from Prague yesterday—there were six flights he could have been on. We pulled the passenger manifests and applied my profile: foreign national, male, thirty-five to sixty-five years of age, traveling alone in First Class. That narrowed the list down to forty-seven passengers. Of those, forty were on business. We were able to confirm their identities and itineraries with their respective corporations, which leaves seven potentials. Six of which checked into the hotels they had listed on their immigration forms. One did not."

"Well done, Agent Keen," Reddington inclined his head toward her.

"What happened to 'Lizzie'?" she asked smoothly.

Reddington ignored her. "When can I speak to him?" he asked.

"Oh, you didn't let me finish. We don't have him. We have a picture of him—" Liz pulled a printed security camera picture from her pocket and unfolded the page, passing it to Reddington. "—but he'd cloned someone else's credit card and passport. He's still in the wind."

Reddington frowned at the picture. "No leads on where he might be headed?"

"None," Liz said, watching Reddington carefully.

Folding the picture again, Reddington stood, holding an arm out toward the door. Liz stood, understanding she was being dismissed. "Thank you for the update," Reddington said as he led her back to the front hall. "But it seems like it's time for me to take matters into my own hands a bit more. If you'll excuse me… I need to set up a meeting."

…:::…

Alan Fitch was generally horrified to see Raymond Reddington waiting for him at his usual table at his favorite restaurant, and said as much.

"Five is _awfully_ early to eat dinner, Alan," Reddington said with a look of disappointment. "Just how old _are_ you these days?"

"This is out of bounds, Ray," Fitch warned him.

Reddington brushed off Fitch's indignation and got straight to the reason for his visit. "What I've come to discuss—and I realize this is a somewhat dramatic analogy—but I'm under attack and _have_ been for some time. My interests; my allies. Someone has targeted my key infrastructure, and the truth is, I'm bleeding."

Fitch, seated across from him, scoffed quietly. "Why should I even consider involving myself in your mess?"

"Because _my_ enemy is _your_ enemy."

"We co-exist, Ray. Surely our last interaction proved that we're not friends. Don't overestimate out relationship."

Reddington tamped down on the fury that threatened to boil to the surface at the mention of the previous Anslo Garrick ordeal. If it was one thing he hated, it was appearing weak or undignified in front of other people, especially people he worked with. He leaned forward, dropping his voice. "We don't _co-exist_. The way I see it, we're both holding loaded guns, pointed at each other. What I possess would lay waste to you and your Alliance. And yes, should I ever use it, you'd probably kill me on the spot. But what we're talking about is mutually assured destruction. So we've both… behaved ourselves… up to this point." Reddington leaned back in his chair and gave a shrug. "Now… this enemy of mine. If he prevails, and in doing so, finds himself in possession of that information, he may very well choose not to be so... well-behaved. You're already involved in this mess, Alan, and if I lose control of the information, you may be exposed. And if I _die_ , it triggers my own protocol for release."

"I don't respond well to threats," Fitch said, his benign delivery an obvious oversimplification of his mood.

"I'm not here to threaten you," Red assured him. "I'm here to see if we can work together."

…:::…  
TBC.


	20. The Kingmaker Part 2

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Sorry to those who were hoping for a bunch of info from Liz at the start of the last chapter! I'm taking a page from the show's writers' playbook and refusing to deliver the information I seemingly promise to give in the teasing cliffhanger of the previous chapter/episode... But I think you'll be pleased with the Berlins. :) Maybe. :) I hope. :)

…:::…

Chapter 20: The Kingmaker Part 2

…:::…

"How did your meeting go?" Liz asked that evening as Dembe delivered her to the room in which Reddington sat.

"Not as well as I'd hoped," he said, closing the file he had open in his lap. Liz flopped down casually in a chair across the room and studied a small bronze statuette on the end table next to her. "Are you here for a specific reason, Agent Keen, or do you just _not want to go home_?"

"My husband isn't my husband, and last night he beat me, knocked me unconscious, and left me handcuffed to our banister." Liz leveled a look at Reddington. "Do you blame me for avoiding my place tonight?"

Reddington frowned and said nothing, tilting his head and glancing back down at the folder he held. He seemed to want to say something, but didn't. Liz let the silence stretch for a moment before she spoke again. "Who did you meet with?"

"Mmm… You know how you say that you're only keeping information from me in order to ensure my safety?" Reddington asked.

"Yes?"

"Let's call this… me returning that favor."

Liz shook her head and looked at the ground for a moment before lifting her gaze to Reddington. "See, I want to be annoyed at the fact that you won't tell me who you met with, but when you say sweet things like that… what's a girl to do?" She shot him a half-hearted smile.

Reddington looked slightly uncomfortable. Liz leaned forward in her chair and braced her elbows on her knees. "Okay, spill. What is going on with you? You're acting more cantankerous than usual."

Reddington raised an eyebrow briefly at her choice of phrasing before pushing himself up out of the chair. He walked slowly across the room to Liz, and she sat back as he approached. He finally came to a stop directly in front of her. He had never been great at observing personal space, but this time it was a bit much. Liz looked up at him, and as she watched his face, his eyes flicked from hers, down to the layers of make-up she'd carefully applied over her bruised jaw, and back up again.

Liz's mind raced. What did he expect her to do? She couldn't back up—she was in a chair. Tell him to back off? Push him away? She couldn't stand up—he hadn't left enough space for her to do so without being in his arms.

Liz swallowed.

Before she was able to choose a course of action, Reddington silently held out the file he was still holding, offering it to Liz. Caught slightly off-balance, there was a beat before she took it from him.

As she set the folder in her lap, Reddington turned back to his seat across the room. Liz opened it, and found several pictures taken from security feeds at St. Adrian's Hospital. "This is… this is where my father died," she said quietly. "And…" She brought the picture closer to her face, and leaned to the side to catch more light from the lamp on the table.

Tom. Tom was clearly walking out of the building, wearing what she'd seen him leave for the airport dressed in on the day Sam died. Liz glanced quickly at the time stamp at the bottom of the page and she suddenly found it hard to swallow, her throat squeezing as if Tom had left the photo and was standing behind her, his hand around her throat. "When was this taken?" Liz whispered.

"The time stamp at the bottom is accurate," Reddington said, his voice low. "Tom left the hospital at 4:37 in the afternoon. Confirmed by other cameras inside the hospital, and in the parking garage elevator."

"Tom said he was in Tulsa…?"

"He wasn't. _Some_ flights were diverted to Tulsa that day, but _his_ was not. He landed as scheduled, and spent almost a half hour in your father's hospital room before he left." Reddington watched Liz carefully, but she said nothing, unable to tear her eyes away from the picture. "I know you've probably already done the math, but… Your father was found at 5:30 PM. The medical examiner estimated he died a little less than an hour before that."

Liz finally looked up at Reddington, and he found himself impressed at the look of resolve on her face, and her lack of tears. "When Tom was in the room," she said, her voice hard.

"Yes."

"Tom killed my father."

"I believe so." Liz was silent, and Reddington continued. "I don't know how much you want to discuss this with me... but I think it's worth me mentioning the fact that..." Reddington stopped and tried again. "During my investigation into this, I didn't know, at first, what information was going to be helpful and what wasn't. I obtained your father's full medical records, and... this may not be what you want to hear, but... Tom may have done Sam a favor." Liz shot Reddington an aggressive look, and he continued quickly, "He was dying. Every part of his body was failing. It seems, according to the nursing notes, that he was impatient for it to end. He'd asked to be disconnected from all the machines. He was... in pain... and suffering." Reddington paused, and added softly, "I'm sure he would have wanted to say goodbye... but objectively speaking... I think this was a kinder end than what Mother Nature had in store for him."

"Are you defending what Tom did?" Liz asked quietly.

"No," Reddington answered. "Not at all. I'm just attempting to... propose a way to look at all of this that might bring you some measure of... comfort, if not peace."

Liz's jaw clenched, but she said nothing, returning her gaze down to the security feed picture.

Reddington gave a firm, single nod of his head and stood. "Okay." He walked purposefully over to where Liz sat and eased his palm under her elbow, applying gentle pressure. She let him guide her to her feet, and he looped her arm through his, starting toward the door. "Dembe?" he called. "Bring the car around, we're going out." He lowered his voice and added, "I could use a drink; what about you?" Without missing a step, Reddington took the file from Liz's hand and placed it on the hall table as they passed, as Dembe joined them, holding the front door open for both of them.

…:::…

"I thought you said we were going for drinks?" Liz asked, confused, her voice just loud enough to be heard by Reddington. "This is a pawn shop. And what the hell is it doing open so late...?"

Reddington approached the glass case in the far back of the shop and smiled broadly at the sales clerk. "Mr. Gibbons," he said, introducing himself.

The clerk nodded and gestured to a plain door off to one side. "Of course, Mr. Gibbons. Right this way."

Reddington thanked the attendant as they were led into the back of the shop and down a steep flight of stairs. As they emerged into a dimly lit, extravagantly decorated room, Liz realized this was some sort of private club.

Of course Reddington wouldn't take her for drinks at a regular bar. Of course not. Liz wondered when she'd stop being surprised by these sorts of things. Probably never.

Dembe walked ahead of them, all business, scanning the room as he strode toward the bar. Several other servers and members of the staff smiled at them and greeted Reddington as 'Mr. Gibbons' as he and Liz made their way to a plush booth on one side of the room.

The server who seated them looked expectantly at Reddington, who ordered two drinks Liz had never heard of, and two cigars.

"Ah," Reddington sighed, stretching an arm across the back of the booth toward Liz. "I love this place. Smells like decadence and vice."

"Who are these people?" Liz asked, trying to glance around without being overly obvious.

"Exactly," Reddington said. Their server appeared again at their table with the cigars. "Oh, thank you," Reddington smiled, taking both, as well as the small silver tray with associated paraphernalia. Liz watched silently as he prepared one, lit it, and passed it across the table to her. She shook her head, wrinkling her nose.

"Mm-mm," she refused.

"Well, hold it, at least. Wave it around," he said, still offering it to her. "At least _look_ like someone who wants to be here. The owner's going to be making his rounds soon enough."

Liz took the cigar and held it gingerly. Her fingers were going to smell for days, she could already tell. "Listen, Red, I appreciate you trying to cheer me up with this, but I just found out that my husband murdered my father, speeding up his death by _just enough time_ that I didn't get to say goodbye. And even if Tom _hadn't_ killed him that day, he would apparently have died shortly thereafter…" Liz lifted the cigar a few inches and turned it slightly, pointing it towards Reddington. "… _of lung cancer_."

Reddington, having just lit his own and taken an initial puff, cringed and blew out the smoke away from Liz. "Forgive me," he said immediately. "Should I put these out?"

"Why are we here?" Liz asked seriously. "At first I thought you were just taking me out for a drink because of tonight's… _revelations_ , and you thought I needed one. But _my situation_ is obviously not on your mind right now; I can tell. You're here for some other reason, and you're letting me tag along. _Why are we here_."

Reddington cocked an eyebrow at Liz. "Well, aren't you astute this evening."

"I'm just not in the mood for bullshit."

"I can see that," Reddington said, lifting his cigar again. "You didn't answer my question. Do you want me to put these out?"

"You can keep yours," Liz said, passing hers back to him. He set it in an ornate cut glass dish between them. "But _you_ didn't answer _my_ question, either. Why are we here?"

"I already told you. The owner of this place is going to stop by our table in the next few minutes. We need to speak to him."

Liz couldn't help her gaze dropping to Reddington's mouth as he turned his face away from her and brought his cigar to his lips. She knew he smoked cigars—she even knew his preferred brands—but there was something about his practiced movements, the comfortable way his mouth accepted the end of the cigar… She hadn't expected...

Liz realized her lips had parted, and she was staring openly at him. She dropped her eyes quickly to the table, mentally chastising herself for her lack of concentration. Why did her life have to be so complicated? Guilt washed over her as her cheeks flushed. She'd just learned that her husband had killed her father, and yet her life was continuing to trundle forward, not pausing for what seemed like an appropriate period of time to let her catch her breath. The psychologist in her understood that this was a common reaction: many people felt some kind of guilt for an extended period of time after the death of a loved one, but the rest of the world didn't stop just because one girl lost her adoptive father. There were still bad guys, she still had a job, and Reddington was still… Reddington.

"What do you need to speak to the owner about?" Liz asked, her voice tight.

"Charles!" Reddington said, suddenly all smiles. He stood, greeting the man approaching the table with open arms.

"Good to see you again, my friend," the owner said, enveloping Reddington in a hug.

As they separated and Reddington took his seat again, he gestured to Liz. "Charles, this is Natalie—"

Liz extended her hand to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, plastering an easy smile on her face. She turned to Reddington. "And you said you don't have any friends," she chided good-naturedly, one eyebrow raised.

"Listen, Charles, I need to know whether this gentleman has been in recently," Reddington said, passing a copy of the cloned passport The Kingmaker had used to Charles.

"Oh, I'm not in the business of revealing my clientele, but… considering Mali…"

Reddington gave a boisterous laugh. "Oh my God, Mali!" He turned to Liz. "The tiniest woman on Earth. What a marvel. The things she could do…"

"On her head…" Charles interjected.

"That's right! On her head… Oh, I wish you could have met her," Reddington said, smiling fondly and chuckling.

"Anyway, about your inquiry," Charles offered. "He was here for dinner a few evenings ago. Mr. King."

Liz and Reddington shot each other a quick look. "How perfectly on the nose," Reddington said softly. Turning back to Charles, he asked, "Did he happen to leave a telephone number when he made his reservation?"

"No, but he was complaining about the heat register at the Brixton…?" Charles hinted with a wink before excusing himself to continue his rounds.

…:::…

Several hours later, Liz called Ressler from the Kingmaker's hotel room.

" _You broke into someone's hotel room with Reddington?_ " Ressler groaned, and Liz could hear sheets rustling. "Ugh. Keen, I don't even know what time it is…"

"I know, it's late—"

"Actually, I believe we can officially classify this as 'early'," Reddington said pleasantly from the other side of the room where he was still shuffling through the papers spread out across the hotel room desk.

Liz waved a shushing hand. "—but we found blueprints and photos of a home, along with alarm codes and wiring schematics. Reddington thinks it's a breaching plan, and I've got an address for you. I think we need to get there _now_."

"Why?" Ressler grumbled.

"Because I think this is the house of US senator."

…:::…

Liz and Reddington were benched once they arrived at the Post Office.

"You two need to stop with the unauthorized stunts," Cooper bellowed. " _You_ —" He jabbed a finger at Liz. "—are not a field agent. And _you_ —" He pointed at Reddington. "Are skating on very thin ice with me. You know Agent Keen had a spotless record before you turned yourself in? You've become a bad influence on her."

"Why, Harold," Reddington said affectionately. "That's the nicest compliment I think you've ever given me. I'm very fond of you, too."

"Sir, do we have a team in place at Mitchell's house yet?" Liz asked.

"They're en route. You two are both staying put, though. You can watch from here."

"But sir, you wouldn't even know Senator Mitchell is the next target if we hadn't—"

"Not another word, Agent Keen," Cooper said sternly, turning to Aram. "Where are we on the senator's background?"

"He's clean—I can't find anything on him," Aram answered, continuing to type. "He's a boy scout."

Reddington walked toward Aram. "Yes, but if the goal is to kill him, who benefits? He dies, it triggers a special election. Who wants his seat?"

"Patrick Chandler," Liz said suddenly.

"The state assemblyman whose wife just died?" Cooper asked, his brow furrowed.

"In an accident…" Liz looked at Reddington, who nodded, agreeing with her theory.

"A freshman politician is suddenly thrust into the spotlight, his selfless heroism on full display… that kind of thing just _reeks_ of the Kingmaker," Reddington confirmed as Dembe approached him and spoke quietly in his ear. Reddington nodded.

"Send a unit out to Chandler's house to watch him, and—Reddington! Where do you think you're going?" Cooper stopped mid-sentence as Reddington and Dembe started toward the door.

"It looks like you've got all of this well in hand," Reddington said over his shoulder.

"I told you and Agent Keen to stay—"

"Yes, but Harold, _I don't work for you_. Agent Keen can remain and be babysat, but I'm a big boy, and I'll take my 'bad influence' somewhere else. It's been a long night, and I'm in the mood for a greasy breakfast."

…:::…

Reddington was thoroughly irritated by the time Fitch joined him. He was anxious about the apprehension of the Kingmaker, and would not have left the black site an hour ago if it could have been helped.

"I've been waiting here for twenty minutes," Reddington said angrily as Fitch took a seat across from him. "I can't remember the last time—"

"Ray, before you say what you're about to say, I was told to skip this meeting entirely. To not come here at all. You're feeling disrespected, but the fact that I even walked in here is proof that the opposite is true."

Reddington frowned. This wasn't starting off well. "I take it you've spoken with your colleagues."

"We're out, Ray," Fitch said simply.

"That's a mistake," Reddington warned.

"Yeah, so you said. But we can handle ourselves. We can do our own risk assessment." When Reddington said nothing, Fitch went on, "Look, for what it's worth, I know… I know who you are, and I know what you're doing. What you felt you had to do over the last two decades, and why you were put in that position."

"You don't know the half of it," Reddington growled.

"But I know a whole lot more than most everyone else," Fitch pointed out. "And I voted to step in, but others were… not as forward-thinking. There are some among us who think we should have killed you outright; called your bluff about whether or not you actually have this… alleged evidence."

"And that would be another mistake. Like you said… you know me considerably better than either of us would like to admit. _I will win this war._ This enemy of mine will _lose._ Even with you and your short-sighted brethren watching safely from a distant hill. Because as bad as you may think I am, as far as you think I'm willing to go to protect that which I hold most dear, you can't possibly fathom how deep that well of mine truly goes."

"Now, Ray, I know how you get when you value something. You get scary," Fitch admitted. "But it isn't about your family this time. This is just about _you_. And the FBI notwithstanding… You don't have a lot of friends or family these days. You're on your own, more so than you've been in a long time, I think. I don't know how much this will mean to you, but… I want you to be careful. And watch your back."

Fitch's attempt at an olive branch fell on deaf ears. Reddington stood, palmed his hat onto his head, and listed slightly to the right as he looked down on Fitch before he left. "If you think I'm scary when I have something to protect... just imagine what I might become if I think I've got nothing to lose. You think you've come here simply to say that you can't help me, but all you've done is ensure that when this is all over, I won't be able to help _you_. When the day inevitably comes that I settle up with you and your little Alliance, it will be _you_ , Alan, alone in the dark."

…:::…

As Reddington brushed past Dembe in the foyer, he held out his hand and demanded, "Phone." Dialing quickly, he pushed out through the doors, Dembe jogging ahead of him to start the car.

Liz picked up on the second ring. "Reddington, you should get back here," she said immediately.

"I'm on my way. Agent Keen, listen to me very closely. I need you to hold him for me. Ten minutes with him; that's all I need. I must know who commissioned that hit on the politician in Prague." Reddington slid into the back seat of the car and Dembe pulled away from the curb.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Red, that's not going to be possible," she said, before being interrupted again.

"We discussed this," Reddington said irritably. "You know that piece of information was the entire reason I brought you this case."

Liz closed her eyes with a wince. "Red, I'm sorry... The Kingmaker is dead."

Gritting his teeth, Reddington pulled the phone away from his ear and punched the button the end the call. He closed his phone and threw it angrily on the seat next to him, wiping at his chin in agitation as he stared out the window at the blur of the city.

…:::…

TBC.


	21. Berlin Part 1

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author’s Note: Gotta take a moment to thank everyone, again, for not only sticking with me, but commenting and reviewing with such love. This project started out as a way to see how little I would have to change--how SIMPLE it would be--to create an equal but still interesting relationship between Red and Liz, and how little I’d have to change to make Liz into a stronger, more fully-formed character. Turns out the answer is: not much. I wanted to prove that The Blacklist could still be basically WHAT IT IS, and still have a badass female lead. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that so many of you have mentioned this in your comments! I’m incredibly flattered by all of your words. Thank you, thank you, thank you. :) (And an extra thanks to almcvay1 for assuring me I hadn't started typing gibberish.)

…:::…

Chapter 21: Berlin Part 1

…:::…

Liz called Reddington back immediately, hoping the call had just been dropped, but knowing in her heart that he’d hung up on her.

She called back three times in quick succession. Nothing.

After an hour, she called him again. Twice.

Nothing.

Liz walked slowly over to Ressler’s desk. “I need to talk to you,” she said quietly.

“I’m busy, Keen. I shot a guy today, remember? Comes with a bit of paperwork, even when it’s a ‘bad guy’.”

“My husband was an agent inserted into my life to learn about Raymond Reddington and this task force. Yesterday night I confronted him, and he fled,” Liz said flatly.

Aram and Meera were standing within earshot, and both stopped what they were doing to stare over at Liz. Ressler looked up at her for a moment from his desk chair, his mouth open as if he wanted to reply, but couldn’t find the words to make his response audible. Finally, rather than saying anything, he stood, grabbed Liz by the bicep, and marched her upstairs to Cooper’s office.

Several hours later, she’d explained everything she felt she could. They’d immediately called in an interrogator to question her; someone other than a team member. She gave the entire timeline from the moment Tom had first made contact at a coffee shop in Georgetown, to their fight the previous night. She explained only that she felt Tom had targeted her in an effort to locate Raymond Reddington, and that her expertise—used heavily by the FBI starting in 2007—was likely the reason she’d been chosen in particular. Quick to admit she had no actual proof of this, she posited Tom Keen’s secondary purpose in her life was data collection and counterintel regarding the task force. Since nothing specifically indicated that he knew how her path had crossed Reddington’s twenty years ago, she felt confident leaving that information out of her report. Red didn’t know, Tom didn’t appear to know, so the FBI didn’t need to, either. Simple as that.

“Did you tell your husband you were working with Raymond Reddington?” the interrogator had asked.

“I did not,” Liz said. “And if we could refrain from referring to him as my ‘husband’, I’d appreciate that.”

“And you have no idea of his whereabouts at this time?”

Liz didn't hesitate with her answer, since even though Reddington was having Tom followed, he hadn’t shared any of the information with her. “No.”

She went on to describe her theories about him goading her into turning him in to the FBI so he might get a first-hand look at the facility, and she gave full descriptions and accounts of all she knew regarding his three accomplices: Christopher Maly, Jolene Parker, and Gina Zanetakos.

“I’m not actually sure how she’s connected,” Liz amended after mentioning Zanetakos. “But she is available for questioning, since she’s serving a sentence for conspiracy and murder at Danbury.”

“No. Gina Zanetakos escaped two weeks ago when she was on a work furlough. Her whereabouts are unknown.”

Liz refrained from speaking her mind about the insanity of letting that woman out on a work furlough to begin with. She could just imagine the expression on Reddington’s face when she told him later.

If he ever spoke to her again.

…:::...

That night, Dembe walked into the room where Reddington sat, poring over documentation spread across a table in front of him. Reddington looked up expectantly, but said nothing.

“They lost the husband,” Dembe said, holding up a phone.

Reddington scowled, and looked back down at the paperwork.

“How bad is it?” Dembe asked.

“Worse than I thought,” Reddington said darkly. “How’s your Russian these days?” he inquired, tilting his head at the documents in an invitation to have the other man join him at the table.

As Dembe began to walk toward him, there was a loud knock at the front door. He stopped and looked sharply at Reddington, who shook his head, his eyes hard. He wasn’t expecting anyone tonight. Dembe's right hand went to his weapon as he left the room to see who was calling so late.

A moment later, Dembe led Liz back into the room. Reddington sighed in frustration and shook his head. “Agent Keen, I have little time for you tonight, and an even smaller amount of patience, so you’re going to need to—“

She cut him off. “I told the FBI everything we know regarding Tom today.”

“You what?”

“I tried to contact you; you ignored me. It was going to come out sooner or later, and I wanted to stay ahead of it; control the information. I gave you an opportunity to weigh in on what was said, but you wouldn’t pick up the phone.”

The muscles in Reddington’s jaw jumped, and Liz noted the small tick beneath his left eye.

“You look like you’ve had a generally terrible day,” she went on, quietly. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Yes," he answered, sarcasm in his tone. "Tell me who hired the Kingmaker to frame my man in Prague.”

“I’m sorry; I had no control over that—“

“You don’t seem to have control over a lot of things, Agent Keen,” Reddington said irritably. “And the FBI, for all its pomp and circumstance, doesn’t seem to, either. I’m beginning to think being attached to this agency isn’t worth the hassle anymore,” he mumbled.

“Leaving would be a mistake, Red,” Liz said quickly. “You _need_ me—“

“And why is that? Hmm? Who are you?” Reddington stood up and advanced on Liz, who stubbornly held her ground. “Why do I need _you_ , in particular? How did Tom pick you—what piece of information did he have that made you his target? And who was it that hired him to infiltrate your life? To marry you?”

“I don’t know what Tom found that made him believe I was a way to you. It could have been any number of things,” Liz answered honestly. “And I don’t know what group he worked for.”

“I didn’t ask what group he worked for; that information is inconsequential. I want to know who _hired_ him.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Liz asked suspiciously.

“Not always. And not in this case.” Reddington turned back to his papers, and sat down, turning away from Liz dismissively.

“You found the agency Tom was working for?” Liz asked, her voice rising in anticipation. She took a step toward the table.

“Go home, Agent Keen.”

“Red, I don’t know what put you into such a tailspin over the last two days, but you look like you could use some help,” she said, her voice almost pleading with him to let her in.

Reddington inclined his head to one side and sighed. “Since aligning myself with the FBI a year ago, I haven’t been able to ascertain who is coming after me. That was my _most pressing reason_ for this affiliation.” He paused and rolled his tongue in his mouth before continuing unemotionally, “Now, I’ve never seen any sense in sticking around in an unhealthy relationship, and if I’m not getting what I need out of _this_ …” He waved a hand between them. “...it might be time for me to go. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy helping your government bring down ‘bad guys’ over the last twelve months, and meanwhile, my closest contact within the agency refuses to tell me what she knows about the people after me, or why she’s been _stalking_ me for _years._ " He paused pointedly, and Liz was unable to hold his gaze, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I came to you people for answers, and all I’ve gotten is a guest-starring role in your task-force’s cops and robbers game. Someone is _after me_ , Agent Keen, and I’m not sure you’re able to help me with that. I think it’s time we ended our arrangement and went our separate ways.”

Panic burst in Liz’s chest, and she fought to keep her face from betraying her frantic dismay. He couldn’t leave. She couldn’t lose him.

“I can help you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She suddenly saw herself through his eyes: young, and small in the world. And probably incredibly naive.

“No, you can’t. We’re done. I’m sure you can show yourself out.” Reddington looked down at his papers.

“Don’t do this, Red. You and me… we’re not finished," Liz insisted.

Without looking up from his task, Reddington said unemotionally, “‘You and me’ weren’t anything to begin with, and if we never _started_ , then there is no ‘finished’ to be had.”

Liz realized hanging her hopes of him staying on anything personal relating to the pair of them was a bad idea. She quickly switched tactics to play on his sense of self-preservation instead.

“If you run, they’ll tear up your immunity deal. It’ll be over." Liz walked over to where Red sat, leaving only a small distance between them. "They get their hands on you again? You’ll either die in the take-down, or you’ll end up in a dark hole where I can’t find you. They’ll imprison you, suspend habeas corpus indefinitely, and you’ll never see sunlight again.”

“You don’t think I have the ability to disappear?" Reddington asked, slightly insulted. "I’ve been avoiding various people and agencies who wanted to catch me for _decades_. If I want to leave, you and your Agent Ressler would _not_ be able to find me again, I _assure_ you.”

Liz gave a somewhat disgusted roll of her eyes. “First of all, he is _not_ ‘my’ Agent Ressler,” she began. “And second, yes, we _would_ be able to find you again. You don’t think I’ve learned an extra thing or two about you since this all started? I bet I know more about you than the rest of the world put together, and it’s probably fairly obvious to you at this point that I’ve had a vested interest in Raymond Reddington for quite some time. You can’t honestly believe I haven’t continued digging and filling in more blanks about you while you’ve been asking to search for names in ViCAP, or looking through the Alchemist’s files? You have no idea what I’d be willing to do—what rules I’d be willing to break—to help you. You know you could have been asking _me_ for these things the whole time? You think I don’t want to help you find who’s trying to take you down?”

“Trust is not something that comes easily in my line of work, Agent Keen, it has to be _earned_.”

“And when have I ever shown myself to be anything but thoroughly _on your side_? What have I done to make you think you can’t trust me?” Liz placed a hand on the table in front of Reddington, leaning in to his workspace so he would have to acknowledge her. "You _do_ trust me. You wouldn't work with me the way you have been—you wouldn't consciously include me in things—if you didn't. You’ve gone out of your way to save my life _multiple_ times in the last year—“

“Agent Keen, you’re my contact at the FBI, and yes, we’ve developed a sort of working relationship that’s been built on... a small measure of trust between us," Reddington admitted. "Working with the task force over the last year, I found the agents to be just the type of people I expected: the human equivalents of stale, dry, flavorless water crackers, and you were notably the most palatable one in the whole bunch," he confessed. "I did _not_ want to have to work with Donald Ressler, and after the first few weeks I wasn’t about to go through the hassle of learning—“ Reddington looked her up and down. “—someone else. You were worth protecting because you were useful. You were business.” Liz worked hard to keep her face unemotional, despite the fact that she felt like she’d just been punched in the gut. “Now, I know I’m not just business to _you_ ,” he was quick to continue, “but since you won’t tell me what our connection is, _I still don’t know that we even actually have one_. You could have fixated on me in school, the first time your Criminal Psychology 101 professor gave a lecture on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted, plastering my face up on his overhead projector.” Reddington looked like he wanted to say more, but the words fell silent in his mouth, and he swallowed, rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, and turned his head slightly to look past Liz, his eyes unfocused across the room.

"If I first became aware of you in college... explain the drawings," Liz argued in a low voice, determined to talk him out of leaving, even if she had to give up some ground.

“What a wonderful suggestion! _Explain the drawings_ ,” Reddington demanded, looking up at her sharply. “Explain why Tom Keen thought you were important enough in the search for me that he _married_ you. That level of commitment to a cover would have been warranted only if you were someone _very_ special, and someone who had very specific ties to me. Explain who you are, Agent Keen. Tell me your real name. Tell me where you were born. Tell me why you had to go to live with Sam. Tell me _anything_. Because I don’t trust people I know _nothing about_.”

Liz rotated until she was able to sit, perched slightly on the edge of the table. She took a long moment to decide how much to tell him. If giving up some information was the only thing that could make him decide to stay… then so be it. "As a freshman in college I begged my way into an advanced-level criminal psychology class. I knew I wanted to become an FBI agent, and I wanted to do it as fast as possible. I recognized your face—the face I'd been struggling to draw for years—as one of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. It was a bit of a shock, to be honest. I wasn’t expecting to see your face in the middle of class one day, without warning. And you’d aged—“ Liz broke off, biting her lip. After a beat, she added, “That was the day I learned your name."

"But you’d drawn me before that?" Reddington asked quietly.

"Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because I needed to remember your face." When he didn't say anything further, Liz continued, “Since our first case together, we've saved a _lot_ of people, Red. And you can help us save more. If you walk away now, those lives will be on _your_ hands.” She looked at Reddington imploringly. “Are you really willing to put your frustration with me above the lives of innocent people—?”

She shouldn't have appealed to his sense of good. She saw the change in his mood immediately. “I really do have a lot on my plate right now,” Reddington interrupted her firmly. “Dembe?” he called. Lowering his voice again, he addressed himself to Liz once more. “As we've discussed, someone has been targeting me recently, and my ship is taking on quite a bit of water at the moment, so I have work to do.” Dembe entered the room behind Liz, and Reddington nodded at him. “Dembe, Agent Keen was just leaving; do you mind seeing her to the door?”

Dembe stepped forward, his arm extended in an invitation to Liz to follow him.

“Let me help,” Liz said, side-stepping the bodyguard.

Reddington tossed down the pen he was holding and turned to Liz, exasperated. “ _You cannot help, Agent Keen._ Now, unless you speak Russian, I think we’ll do better without the distraction of—“

Liz continued to stay a few strides ahead of Dembe as she rounded a large chair and made her way to the opposite side of the table. “It’s a little rusty, but I’m sure it’s better than yours,” she said.

Dembe stopped, and Reddington looked up from his papers.

“Like I said… how can I help?" she asked, her eyebrows raised earnestly.

Reddington narrowed his eyes at Liz for a moment before slowly and deliberately choosing a single page from the spread on the table. He extended his arm toward Liz, but didn’t stand or lean toward her, making her go out of her way to reach for the paper. She took it and skimmed it as she pulled out a chair for herself. She sat, and looked up at Reddington. “Berlin.”

“What about it?”

“‘Who’, not ‘it’. Berlin is a person. And he’s coming. For you.” Liz passed the sheet of paper back across the table quickly and picked up another. “Where did you get these?” she asked.

“Does it give a date?” Reddington asked. “Berlin’s arrival?”

“No,” Liz responded, frowning at the page she held. “But there’s reference to a plane…?” Liz trailed off. “Do you remember when I gave you the photograph of the girl? At Stanley Kornish’s cabin?”

“The Stewmaker?” he clarified. Liz nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“This mentions her.” Liz passed the page back to Reddington. “Why _did_ you kill her?” Liz asked gently, attempting to keep her voice as non-judgmental as possible, even though it turned her stomach a bit to think of the girl he’d handed over to that monster. She’d never been able to figure out what move he’d been making at the time. It seemed vastly out of character for him.

“Who says I killed her?” Reddington answered evenly.

Liz faltered. “She… Her picture. He had her picture in his trophy book. I know you arranged transport of her body from Russia to the United States in 1991, I know—“

“You know a lot, yes,” Reddington interrupted. “But you don’t know the whole story, and you obviously do _not_ know the details of my first few years… on my own.” He tilted his head and regarded her stoically. “You were, what… seven? Eight years old in 1991? How do you even know any of this?”

Liz shrugged one shoulder in a lazy, minimalistic gesture. She felt exhausted now that the adrenaline from Reddington’s threat to leave was starting to dissipate. “Lots of kids take a year off after college. Backpack. Get off the grid. See the world.” Liz ran a finger along the edge of the expensive, ornate table edge. “They say kids who do it are less burned out when they come back to start jobs or go on to graduate level education. It’s good for them.” She looked back up at Reddington and held his gaze. “They learn a lot.”

Liz suddenly realized Dembe had silently withdrawn from the room. Apparently she’d been allowed to stay. Some tension seemed to lift from her shoulders, and the tight line of her mouth relaxed a bit, even managing a hint of a smile. “So what else can I help you with?”

…:::...

The next day when Liz walked into the blacksite, it took less than a minute for a feeling of uneasiness to settle over her. Ressler and Meera wouldn’t look at her, and while Aram didn’t avoid eye contact, his good-morning smile across the room seemed to be tinged with pity and apology.

“Aram.” Liz came to stand beside his desk, leaning against the edge. “Where’s Cooper?”

“Uh… in his office. He’s been in there since I got here, and I was… early.”

Liz looked up through the half-drawn blinds. “Who is he talking to?” she asked, squinting at the unfamiliar younger man.

“Don’t know. But apparently he’s up high enough that he can give Cooper orders,” Aram said with a touch of fascination in his voice.

“What orders?” Liz asked.

“Um… you’ll, uh… You should really talk to Agent Ressler or Agent Malik about that…?” Aram shuffled some papers nervously and gave a hasty excuse to walk away.

Glancing at Meera and Ressler, Liz felt a cold dread creep up her back, and she glanced up at Cooper’s office again. Just then, she caught sight of the head of their tactical unit as he walked in behind her, brushed past her without slowing, and made a beeline for Ressler. Liz grabbed her bag from her desk and immediately walked back to the elevator.

…:::...  

After a terse phone call with Dembe, Liz arrived at the park where Reddington was sitting at a small table, inlaid with the pattern of a chess board. The pieces were splayed out in front of him, and even though no one sat across from him, he seemed to be in the middle of a game. Liz approached Reddington quickly, doing her best to quell the desire to sprint to him since she needed to avoid drawing any unwanted attention to herself. “Red—“

“I prefer to play with myself in private,” he interrupted her lightly, not looking up.

“Red, we don’t have time for your jokes—“ Liz hissed. Reddington dropped his cavalier attitude immediately, on edge at the sound of the worry in her voice. He glanced at Dembe, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He hadn’t seen anything worrisome yet from his post at the edge of the park.

“I need you to come with me,” Liz said.

“Where?”

“You need to get in the car,” Liz insisted.

“ _Why_?” Reddington asked, suspicious.

“Remember Brussels?” Liz asked, breathless. Reddington clenched his jaw. “ _Go. Now_ ,” Liz warned, her voice low.

Dembe began to jog toward them just as Reddington’s eyes slid to the side and caught sight of a man in full tactical gear, his weapon raised, moving in a quick crouch to take cover behind a low, decorative brick wall. Reddington held up a hand to Dembe, who froze on the spot. He inclined his head and shot his eyes to the left, and Dembe tensed, as if he wanted to refuse the order. Reddington continued to stare at him until the other man began to back up slowly, and turned to walk away in the direction Reddington had indicated, his face anxious.

“What have you done?” Reddington asked, scanning across the park, noting the other shadows approaching.

“What have _I_ done?” Liz asked, confused.

“Who told you about this?”

“No-one. I got to work this morning and something was off—I need to make sure you’re—“

“They did that on purpose. You led them here. They didn’t know where I’d be this morning, so they made you jumpy and then followed you.”

Liz turned in the direction Reddington was staring and felt all of the air leave her body in a rush. He was right. They were here. “Red—I swear, I didn’t—“

“I know you didn’t. And I appreciate the sentiment.” Reddington looked up at Liz and gave a sincere nod.

“You just told Dembe to leave…” Liz said, taking another step toward Reddington.

“Stop moving,” Reddington said sharply. “Dembe needed to back away from me, as do you. Right now.”

“Red, I’m not going to leave you here alone.”

“Yes, you are. If you try to protect me from this, you’ll just end up in a matching hole,” he said grimly.

“Let me talk to them, Red; this isn’t the right time for one of your selfless moments,” Liz said desperately.

“I don’t _have_ selfless moments, Agent Keen. I’m sorry if this cracks the image you have of me in some way, but I’m _always_ trying to think of some angle I could play, or advantage I could gain. Right now? I’m telling you to leave so that I can maintain an ally in the FBI. You’re no good to me in a cell.”

“I know what you did for Dembe. When you first found him,” Liz said in a rush. “And I sure as hell know what you did for me. Don’t tell me you can’t be selfless.”

Reddington rolled his jaw, once, and reached into his jacket. He withdrew a gun and held it lightly, resting on his thigh. He pointed it at Liz.

“Please excuse the gun; I’d hate for them to think we’re in cahoots. It looks like someone in the government got wind of our alliance and my agreement with the FBI. I’m sure they disagreed with the situation: an international criminal… in bed with the FBI. More than likely my immunity has been voided and all paperwork to that effect destroyed.”

“I’m sorry,” Liz breathed, panic making her heart hammer in her chest. She should have let Reddington walk away last night when he’d told her he was done with the FBI and wanted out. “I should have let you go last night. I just… I need you to—“

“ _Drop the weapon! Now!_ ” Harsh orders were barked from one of the men surrounding them from a distance, and Liz jumped slightly.

“—I just want you to know this isn’t the end... for me,” she said, rushing to get her words out before the tactical team descended on them both. “Working with you over the past year… Before that, I felt like my life had been cut into two pieces. Like I was two people. With you… It doesn’t matter what happened with my marriage, or anything else this year. You’ve made it all worth it. And there are still answers _you_ need, and answers _I_ need, and neither one of us can get them without the other. So like it or not—and no matter what they do to you—we’re stuck with each other. _You understand me_?” she asked, pleading for a response.

Reddington stood up and stepped toward Liz, almost casually, reaching for her with his empty hand. The surrounding team surged forward, shouting orders at both of them. Reddington took Liz’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze—so fast she questioned whether it had actually happened—and pressed his gun into her grip. Not releasing her hand, he knelt slowly in front of her. Liz’s brain raced for a solution, but she felt like she was trying to find purchase on a too-slick surface. Reddington tried to withdraw his hands from Liz and his weapon, but Liz clung to him. “Wait—“ she whispered fiercely.

“You need to back away now, Lizzie,” Reddington said, his voice smooth and calm, nodding at her. Giving her permission to leave him there, kneeling on the ground.

She loosened her grip and stepped back, taking the gun with her.

Reddington removed his hat and placed it on the table beside him, folding his hands behind his head, his posture agreeing to a peaceful surrender as armed agents swarmed around him. One of the team grabbed Liz roughly by the arm and dragged her backward, relieving her of Reddington’s weapon.

The last thing she saw before she was swept into a van was Reddington, face down on the ground, his hands pulled behind him, guns trained on his back.

…:::…

TBC.


	22. Berlin Part 2

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: It's the last episode of the season! *sigh of relief* This has been a monster challenge. If you're still here… thanks for sticking with me. I'd like to do Season Two, but I need a break and a bit more mythology first. Maybe I'll start it over the winter hiatus? But for now… the next chapter will be the end of my 'season'. ;)

…:::…

Chapter 22: Berlin Part 2

…:::…

"At least you don't have to worry about immunity anymore," Ressler said as he led Reddington into the cell. "You're never gonna go on trial. You're just going to disappear."

Reddington passively allowed his wrists to be handcuffed to metal brackets, spread far apart on the bench. As Ressler swung the door of Reddington's newest cage closed with a clang, he asked, "What _is_ it with you and Keen? She's been weird about you from the first time I ever met her, and—" Ressler paused to look Reddington up and down as if evaluating him again. "—I've never been able to figure out the obsession."

Reddington regarded the man in front of him coolly. "What level of SPF do you have to use when you go to the beach? Eighty? Does it even go up that high?" Reddington tilted his head, and added with a flat affect, "Can you even _go_ to a beach?"

Ressler gave a thin smile, with narrowed eyes, and walked away toward the door.

"I don't know," Reddington said, his voiced raised to carry across the room before Ressler crossed out into the hallway.

"You don't know what?" Ressler asked. He looked at Reddington's back. The man sat still as a statue, his back straight.

"What it is between Agent Keen and I."

…:::…

As soon as Liz saw Cooper step off the elevator at the blacksite, she jumped up and hurried toward him. "Sir—" She skidded to a stop. "Sir, about Reddington."

"My hands are tied," Cooper said brusquely.

"He can help—" Liz began entreatingly.

"Agent Keen, while you and the tactical team were bringing in Reddington, there was a major plane crash on the banks of the East River. We're getting intel that it may have something to do with 'Berlin': a word that has graced several of your more recent incident and information reports, if I'm not mistaken?" Cooper raised his eyebrows at Liz.

"While the tactical team and _I_ brought in Reddington?" Liz asked incredulously. "Sir, I don't know what you—"

"Keen!" Ressler shouted from his desk. "Get over here. Sir, I need to borrow Agent Keen for a moment?"

Cooper nodded at Ressler. "Fine," he allowed easily, obviously relieved to have an excuse to leave.

Liz walked toward Ressler, her expression confused and irritated. "What was he talking about—?"

"I told almost everyone that you were in on it. You led us to Reddington willingly," he insisted, his eyes hard. "You had to play it like you got spooked here and ran off to warn him, because we don't know if he'd smell us coming a mile away otherwise." Ressler stood up, taking advantage of his height over Liz to make his point. "But now you need to take a really close look at your priorities, Keen. You've gone pretty far off the rails since Reddington turned himself in, and people are starting to ask questions. If anyone around here knew you weren't _pretending_ to run off and warn Reddington this morning, and that tipping him off had been your _actual goal_? You wouldn't just be kicked off the task force, you'd be facing federal charges." Liz opened her mouth to interrupt, but Ressler held up a silencing hand. "The business with Reddington holding a gun on you didn't fool me. You nearly fled with him as a fugitive." Ressler took a step back, glancing around them as if he worried someone had overheard their exchange. "There is no 'next time'. I'm not saving your ass again. Get over your crush and get your head on straight, Keen. And fast." Ressler walked away, leaving Liz fuming silently, rooted to the spot.

…:::…

Less than an hour later, the team assembled around the bank of monitors to review the current situation: the plane, which had taken off from Bogota under a fake flight plan and carrying varying degrees of criminals from several different countries, had crashed, leaving many unsavory survivors who had immediately scattered to the wind.

"We've apprehended a handful of the men believed to have been traveling on the plane," Meera summarized. "They all claim to have been kidnapped and placed on the plane against their will. They also all deny knowledge of a group operating out of Berlin or a potential upcoming attack there; the majority have never been to the city."

"Berlin's a person," Liz spoke up, her voice sharp. Heads swung to look at her.

"And you know this how?" Cooper asked.

"Reddington has paperwork to that effect. Berlin is a man, and he's been targeting Reddington for quite some time."

"How long have you had this information, Agent Keen?" Cooper asked, his voice hard and admonishing.

"It's new. Just before… _we_ … brought Reddington in this morning," Liz said carefully.

"Then it still should have been communicated to the team over an hour ago." Cooper looked at Meera. "Take another crack at all of the prisoners we have in custody. See if 'Berlin' as a name shakes anything else loose. Any others pop up on our radar?"

"Another lead just came in, actually—I was about to take a small team to an apartment complex where my sources say another one of the survivors is holed up."

…:::…

Reddington's head had begun to droop, his shoulders sagging. The way his arms were cuffed and spread meant that his position and posture were severely limited, and the back of his neck was killing him. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench.

The loud clang of one of the outer doors brought his head up, and he swung it stiffly to one side to try to see who had come to visit. The older man who rounded one side of his fenced-in cell caused him to sigh in frustration and shake his head.

"I got to tell you, Ray, this concerns me."

"Really?" Reddington asked antagonistically. "How so?"

"I'm in the intelligence business," Fitch said, coming to a stop in front of Reddington, his hands tucked casually into his pockets in what Reddington thought was an obnoxiously comfortable stance. He fought to remain still. He didn't want to appear at all bothered by his current restraints. Fitch continued, "That mean knowing things. We tried to trace where that plane originated, where it was headed—hell, even who it belongs to. We've come up dry. Why do I think this is connected to your adversary?"

Reddington allowed himself a carefully smug smile and crossed his legs, his lower back complaining. "Perhaps if you had accepted my offer of alliance, neither one of us would find ourselves in this position now: you, managing a massive intelligence failure and national news spectacle, and me…" Reddington looked around at the cage of bars surrounding his bench, with an additional ring of fencing topped with barbed wire around it, in the center of a highly secure government blacksite. He couldn't help but feel flattered that they thought all of this was necessary. "…with this… enchanting view."

"My people made their decision," Fitch said honestly. "That said, I think they made the wrong one. Having you disappear into some black hole somewhere doesn't serve either of our interests."

Reddington narrowed his eyes at Fitch. "Does that mean you intend to let the animal out of its cage?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. The best I can do is give you a fighting chance. I've arranged a transfer."

"That's all I need," Reddington assured him in a low, confident voice. "I can take care of the rest."

"You know, each time we have one of these little talks, I wonder if it'll be our last. But when I consider the odds, I usually figure you'll come out fine. This time…" Fitch shook his head sadly. "I'm not so sure. You and your task force are now _all_ targets. Good luck, Ray."

…:::…

That afternoon, Reddington was led in handcuffs from his enclosure, through a maze of hallways, and out into the underground garage. As he slid into the backseat of a large, black SUV with tinted windows, he was delighted to find Donald Ressler sitting across from him. His face broke out into a broad smile.

"Of course it would _have_ to be you," he said, laughing. "Because Lady Luck just _adores me_ _that much_."

The door was closed behind Reddington and the car engine started.

Ressler looked like he'd swallowed pure fury. "For the record," he said, his voice strained. "I was ordered to do this. I hope you're killed in the attempt." Reddington smiled grandly at the younger man as the SUV sped out of the garage.

After they'd been on the road for several minutes, just long enough to clear the immediate reach of the blacksite, Ressler growled in a low voice, "Two shots at my jaw—that's all you get." He turned to face Reddington with a glare. "So you better make it good, because if I'm not unconscious, you're getting a bullet in the temple."

Reddington leaned in conspiratorially, his eyebrows raised. "Well, I've never been one to shy away from a challenge."

…:::…

Dabbing at the smear of blood beneath his nose, Reddington dialed Liz's cell phone. "Lizzie—listen to me—you're in danger. You, Agent Malik, Cooper, Aram—everyone on the task force." Reddington shifted the pay phone, pinning it between his ear and shoulder. "Although… feel free _not_ to go out of your way for Agent Ressler..." he mumbled under his breath, wincing as he gingerly touched the cut on his scalp.

"What are you talking about?" Liz asked quietly, scanning the room to check the location of the other members of the team.

"There'll be time to explain later. For now, pull everyone back. _You are all in danger_."

"Where are Ressler and Meera?" Liz asked, turning to the only person Reddington listed that she could locate.

"Uh, Ressler was overseeing Reddington's transport, but he's been picked up by the tac team out there with the wrecked car, and Meera's still tracking down another possible plane crash survivor…?"

"Get them back here. We're all being targeted. I'll call Ressler, you get Meera on coms. Where's Cooper?"

"He's upstairs, talking to a really scary looking guy in a suit—but—wait—I can't reach Agent Malik. She's already in the field, and she's not responding—"

"I need an address," Liz demanded.

"No, you don't," Cooper's voice startled her, and Liz spun around to see him striding toward her. "What's this about everyone being in danger?"

"Sir, Reddington just called. He says the entire task force is being targeted. We need to pull back. Please, I know you don't trust him, but we should _not_ gamble with agents' lives—"

"I agree," Cooper cut her off. "But if the rest of the team is in danger, so are you. Send a second team out for Agent Malik, and tell Ressler to get back here as soon as he can," he instructed Aram. "The more people who ask me about Reddington and our work here, the more paranoid I seem to become. And you're right," he said, nodding at Liz. "I'm starting to think Reddington can help us with this current case better than anyone else."

…:::…

Her eyes glassy and red-rimmed, Liz walked slowly down a wide hallway toward the sound of a news broadcast. She was exhausted, and trying to shake off the numbness that had come with the news radioed back by the second tactical unit sent after Meera and her team. Liz had called Dembe to get Reddington's new cell number, and their current address. Neither of the men had bothered to meet her at the door, and she'd been given the gate code without having to ask.

When Dembe saw her approach, he stood and quietly left the room, passing her in the doorway.

"Meera's dead," Liz said softly. When Reddington didn't reply, she went on, "You said we were all targets. Why?"

"Berlin. I still don't have all the answers, but I believe he's come after me seeking revenge. For what, I don't know. I believe it has something to do with my time in Russia. Which… with all I've learned about _you_ recently, means I have to ask… What do you know about this that you haven't told me, Lizzie?"

"Red…"

"Meera was a casualty in a war she didn't know she was fighting," Reddington said gravely. "One that reaches into the highest echelons of multiple governments, and one I find myself in the very center of. I met with someone today who told me you were all in danger. I worry about how he knew that."

"Who?" Liz asked.

Reddington ignored the question. "What do you know about my time in Russia? I've been there many times over the years. I need whatever information you've been keeping from me."

"If Berlin is targeting the task force, it's because you've aligned yourself with us," Liz said, sidestepping Reddington's request. "We're your new team. He wants you isolated. We provide too much support and protection." Liz swallowed thickly, thinking of how little protection Meera had had when her throat had been slit in a grimy third floor apartment that afternoon. "He needs you alone. And vulnerable. He needs you scrambling."

"Russia," Reddington insisted.

"I have no information on Berlin, Red," Liz admitted, spreading her arms in front of herself. "Everything I know pertaining to this case, to my knowledge… I've already told you."

Reddington nodded, and pushed himself up from his chair. "I think it's high time we paid the Russian ambassador a visit."

…:::…

The home of the Russian ambassador was opulent, and when he arrived home, calling for the dog that usually met him at the door, he was startled to find a man and a woman seated at his dining table, slicing peaches. The woman was laughing, and the ambassador's dog, Tuzik, was cradled in one of the man's arms.

"If only I'd known! I've got a ton of champagne at my place; you should have told me to bring some…" Liz said, reaching for another slice of fruit.

"Oh, is it good? I confess, I bought an entire case of something I'd never tried before, just because of—and I'm ashamed to admit it—the price point."

Liz made a show of cringing. "Was it terribly expensive?"

"Not remotely," Reddington laughed. "I wasn't going to waste the good stuff on your husband; please excuse my candor—" He interrupted himself to look up at the man standing in the doorway. "Ah! Good evening, Ambassador!"

"Who the hell are you?" the other man asked angrily.

"No need to worry. Tuzik already gave us a tour and we're all getting along splendidly." Reddington palmed the knife he held and picked up a slice of fruit with two fingers, holding it out as an offering. "Care for a peach? We got here a little early and were both _famished_ , and there's a _wonderful_ little produce stand around the corner."

"I'm calling the police."

"Mr. Ambassador, as we speak, there's an unmarked plane being pulled from the East River. I think we both know that plane is Russian."

"That plane has no ties to the Russian government," the man was quick to insist.

"You really should try the peaches. They're perfectly ripe—and freestone."

Reddington handed the small dog off to Liz, who gently transferred him to her lap. "What's 'freestone'?" she asked.

"Well, unlike a clingstone, the pit of a freestone separates more freely from the flesh," Reddington picked up another fruit and began slicing into it with his knife. "It makes it ideal for consumption."

Tuzik whined in Liz's arms.

"The prisoners on that plane. I need the manifest," Reddington said, his voice low and serious, all previous attempts at lighthearted banter gone.

The ambassador looked at Liz, and dropped his eyes to his pet. "I swear… if you hurt him…"

Reddington barked a laugh. "Oh my goodness, no! She's not a _monster_ ," he said, gesturing to Liz with his knife. "You really think she'd harm a dog?" He turned to her. "In fact, she has one of her own about this size, don't you?"

"Actually, I'm pretty sure he's dead," Liz said matter-of-factly before turning to look at the ambassador. "But I really can't say for certain."

…:::…

Liz called in the information on the manifest that the ambassador had willingly given them: two guards, ten prisoners. She hung up just as she walked in through her front door. She kept her gun in her hand and cleared all rooms before grabbing one of the bottles of champagne from the previously untouched case that had arrived for her vow renewal the previous Saturday. The flowers were all sitting in pitchers and plastic tubs on the kitchen table. They weren't her style, but she still couldn't bear to just throw out multiple bouquets sent to her by Raymond Reddington. The rational part of her brain loudly insisted that it was just window dressing in his continued use of her as live bait, but she decided she didn't care for that explanation, no matter how logical and probable it was. There was a large bouquet of red roses, which smelled beautiful, but Liz was unable to imagine herself ever picking it for herself. She didn't like roses. She paused, working on the cork, and stared at the blooms on her table. If she didn't like roses, what would she have preferred instead? Fresh flowers had always seemed a frivolous waste of money to her: they always withered and died so quickly. She couldn't even keep house plants alive. Everything in her home was fake, and badly in need of dusting. She'd had a cactus in college that had survived her entire junior year, but she doubted that counted.

The champagne cork released with a satisfying pop, and Liz turned to walk upstairs with the bottle, not bothering to grab a glass, clean up the slight spill she'd left on the floor, or retrieve the cork from its landing place across the room.

Wanting a shower but valuing the softness of her sheets more, Liz stripped her work clothes off and sat on the bed. She stared at the wall and drank her champagne straight from the bottle.

She only made it through three inches of the bottle's contents before she fell asleep, her bedside lamp still on.

…:::…

The next morning at the blacksite, Cooper gave a brief update on the work done at Meera's crime scene overnight. "I hope you all got some rest last night," he added. "Because from this point forward, nobody sleeps until Agent Malik's killer is found."

"Sir?" Aram spoke up cautiously. "The guard that survived? Just came out of surgery at the hospital. His doctors say he's awake enough to be questioned."

"Ressler, take Keen," Cooper ordered. "No one goes anywhere alone. Find out what that guard knows."

Ressler, his mouth a thin, tight line, turned on his heel and walked straight to the elevator.

…:::…

"Look, we know you've been through a lot. But we just need to ask you a few questions." The guard in the bed nodded at Liz and Ressler as they stood beside his hospital room bed. Ressler proceeded to pepper him with questions about the prisoners, the location they'd taken off from, their orders for delivery, and handling in between.

"Did any of the prisoners mention 'Berlin'?" Liz interrupted at one point.

"Berlin?" The guard's face clouded with confusion. "No…? I don't think so, but it was loud on the plane, and there were only three of us guards. We couldn't pay attention to all of the prisoners all of the time."

"Have you ever heard of a man going by the name Berlin?" Liz pressed.

The guard's face creased with pain as he tried to shift in his bed. He lay back with a defeated stillness. "I only know the story…" he murmured.

"Story? What story?" Ressler asked.

The guard sighed. "They say he was in the KGB, and was notorious for the brutal way he would… carry out his assignments. Nothing was sacred to this man besides his country, and his wife and daughter. His wife was killed by a drunk driver. She was hit one night on a snowy road in Russia during a winter storm… This man—this Berlin—burned down half of Russia looking for who was responsible, and when he finally found him, Berlin left his body in pieces, sprayed across the bricks in an open city plaza. But the man, his wife's killer… turns out he was important to people in high places, and Berlin was arrested and imprisoned for the public and bloody death he'd handed out. Someone must have wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine, because his daughter—the one thing left in the world that he cared about—disappeared. And one day, something arrived in his cell. It was a pocket watch he had given his daughter, and inside was a picture of her. And a few months later, something else arrives: her ear. And then a finger. His enemies sent her back to him piece by piece.

"No one knows how he did it, but he did—some say that he carved a knife from one of his daughter's bones—and slaughtered all the men that had held him captive for so many years. Then he vanished… disappeared… A ghost. Hunting, searching for the man responsible for his daughter's death."

"That's it? That's the whole story?" Ressler prompted.

"That's all I know… and I… I'm feeling very light headed… Do you have any more questions…?"

"Not at the moment," Liz said quickly before Ressler could push the poor man any further for information he didn't seem to have. "You've been very helpful; thank you."

Liz and Ressler moved to leave, but just as they reached the door, something snagged in Liz's brain and she frowned. "I'm sorry, just one more question," she said, turning back to the man in the bed. "You said there were three guards on the transport plane, watching all ten passengers. But the manifest shows there were only two of you…?"

The guard shook his head. "No. There were three."

Liz called the Post Office as she and Ressler hurried back to their car. "Berlin—he wasn't one of the prisoners—he was on that plane as an extra _guard_."

Her second call was to Reddington. "We need to meet. I've got a lead on Berlin."

…:::…

TBC.

Next chapter is the last one!


	23. Berlin Part 3

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Final chapter! Thank you all for reading this huge thing! You're probably like, good lord, girl… you've been saying farewell in your author's notes of the last three chapters in some fashion or another… just finish this thing up already. It's like watching the writers try to say goodbye to Tennant as the Doctor. It happened over the course of like, five different episodes. Enough already. ;)

…:::…

Chapter 23: Berlin Part 3

…:::…

Liz argued with Ressler for almost the entire ride back to the Post Office. Just as they pulled into the garage she finally managed to eek out partial permission to pass on all of the information they'd just obtained from the guard to Reddington. She didn't have Ressler's express consent by any means, but Liz decided she should read between the lines and ask for forgiveness later if things didn't turn out well.

Liz met with Reddington just before noon. She opened the back door of the black sedan and slid in next to him, just as Dembe opened the driver's side door and stepped out. He stood just next to the car, facing away from the windows.

Reddington remained silent as Liz ran through the story the guard had told them, and brought him up to speed on all of the other details from the Post Office.

After she'd finished, he seemed to continue to mull over the information, pursing his lips and swallowing. Liz said nothing, knowing he'd speak when he had something to say.

Finally, Reddington looked up at her with a serious expression on his face. "When… _exactly_ … did you come to the United States?"

 _Damn_. "Were you not listening?" she asked, trying to avoid his question. "The guard said—"

"How are you related to this? Are you connected to Berlin?" he asked, his voice quiet, but harsh and accusing.

Liz shook her head. "Red, I promise you, I have nothing to do with this situation. At least not in any way that you're suggesting. You're right—in 1991 I was living overseas. I was seven years old. You know I came to live with Sam in 1994: and that move was necessitated by events that occurred _in 1994_ , not three years before that." Liz looked at Reddington evenly.

"And what were those events?" Reddington asked. "I was in Russia in 1994; and my trip there was—" Reddington broke off. "Did the circumstances that forced you to come here involve me?" His face was suspicious, and beginning to look like he suspected something specific, and wanted confirmation.

"I don't think I ever said I moved here from Russia," Liz pointed out.

"Did you?" Reddington asked.

Liz remained quiet for a moment, but didn't look away.

She should have known better than to enter into a staring contest with Raymond Reddington. After a long silence, she finally sighed and looked away, her eyes directed, unfocussed, out Reddington's window. "The year I took off… after college, traveling the world… I went to France. I went to Germany. England, small villages in Spain, remote parts of Asia… Even a few places in Africa." Liz paused. "And Russia. I spent several weeks in Russia."

"And during that time you never heard the name Berlin?"

"No."

"What _did_ you hear while you were there?"

"Stories about you," Liz answered. "Stories about the man who stole away the body of a dead teenage girl. Shipped her to America in 1991. Stories about what else you'd been involved in, during other trips… other years… People you had had… _contact_ with, in Russia."

"You found evidence that I'd been the one to take that girl and deliver her to the Stewmaker?" Reddington asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes."

Liz wished she could draw the look on his face. It was an amusing mix of perturbation and embarrassment, but he was obviously also fairly impressed. "Well… aren't you clever. Next time I prepare to do something in a clandestine way, I may have you look over my plans first to check for sloppiness," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Really?" Liz asked, flattered.

"No." Reddington shifted in his seat. "And you knew I wouldn't want evidence that I'd ever dealt with the Stewmaker as a client, so you took the only picture you knew of that could implicate me in a crime connected with his…methods?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Reddington followed up immediately.

"Because that's what I do. I protect you."

Reddington frowned. "I'm a criminal. You're the FBI."

"Is that all we are?" Liz asked with a quiet intensity. Reddington held her gaze steadily.

Dembe knocked on the window, and Liz clenched her jaw, trying not to let her disappointment at the interruption show too blatantly on her face. Reddington rolled the window down immediately, taking the phone Dembe held out to him.

"Yes?" he said, unmuting the call and holding it to his ear.

"Hello, dearie. I found him," Mr. Kaplan said. "Got a pencil?"

"I'm listening," Reddington said vaguely.

"5152 Katrine Way."

Reddington hung up without offering thanks.

"Was that the source you mentioned earlier? The one you said had a lead on Berlin's location?" Liz asked, curious and anxious for more forward movement on the case.

"Yes."

"Did he find Berlin?"

Reddington slid the phone into an inside pocket of his jacket and looked critically at Liz, as if he were sizing her up. Trying to decide if she was worth the gamble. Worth his trust.

"Yes."

…:::…

Reddington and Liz left Dembe at the entrance to the apartment building, armed and alert as always.

As they quietly ascended the stairs, they both noticed that all other floors and rooms were empty. The entire building was vacant.

They finally arrived at a closed door with the sounds of a television's muted mumbling through the thin walls. Liz nodded at Reddington, who shot the lock, and shoved through the door. Liz quickly followed him, their guns drawn on the one man standing alone in the room.

"You must be the one they call 'Berlin'," Reddington said. "Sit." He motioned to a chair.

The man reluctantly sat, glaring at Reddington and all but ignoring Liz. Reddington kept his gun trained on him, and Liz moved forward, grabbing a roll of duct tape from the table.

"I must say, I'm very good at finding people," Reddington said, watching as Liz methodically secured the man's hands and then feet to the arms and legs of the chair he sat in. "I've tracked enemies far and wide. I once found a hedge-fund manager hiding in the Amazon with the Yawalapiti on the banks of the Kuluene River," Reddington boasted with a smile. "You know what the key to finding your enemies is? Remembering everyone's name. It's critical to my survival. Anyone knows the head of some drug cartel in Colombia; some politician in Paris. But I know their wives, girlfriends, children, their enemies, their friends. I know their favorite bartender, their butcher."

Liz backed away from the man in the chair and retreated to the doorway, standing just on the threshold so she could glance down the hallway periodically.

Reddington leaned forward, closer to their prisoner. "I remember the name of the baker I stole the strawberry bismark from when I was eleven years old, _and_ his wife—Trudy Svoboda. But _you_ —I have no idea _who in the Sam Hill you are_. I have not a _clue_ what I've done to you; what I've taken from you. And yet, of all the people I've hurt, _none_ of them have come after me with _half_ as much vim and vigor as _you_." Reddington stopped and gave a loud, frustrated laugh. "I don't even recognize your face." All humor left Reddington's expression and he leveled a steely look at the man in front of him. "I'm _stymied_. And yet… here we are. _You found me_ ," he growled.

"Through your _weakness_ ," the man added with a sneer, his Russian accent slurring his words. "I searched for one for _years_ —a weakness that would allow me to get to you. I nearly gave up. And then…" He craned his neck around, cutting his eyes to Liz. "…I find out about _her_."

Liz's blood ran cold. She took a step out of the hallway and into the room, but went no further.

"Seemed so implausible that someone so careful," he went on, looking back to Reddington pointedly, "could be so careless as to leave any survivors." He gave an insincere smile. "So I exploited. You'd already found her, actually. Made it easy."

Reddington frowned, his jaw set. Liz glanced, worried, from the man in the chair to Reddington and back again. Reddington had found her? _When?_ She'd seemed so sure he didn't know anything about her that first day at the black site—

"So here we are… thanks to Elizabeth Keen," he finished, leaning forward against his bonds in a challenging way, as if daring Reddington to retaliate.

Rather than immediately resorting to violence, Reddington leaned back against the desk that sat along one wall. Liz was acutely aware of the fact that since he'd started talking he hadn't looked at her. Not even a glance. Not once. Liz, on the other hand, couldn't take her eyes off of him.

"Help me understand what horrible thing I did to you that could possibly make all of this worth it. Who on God's green Earth _are_ you?"

The man mumbled something under his breath, causing Reddington to lean forward. "What was that?" he asked irritably.

From the chair, the man spat upward, spraying across Reddington's face. There was a beat as no one in the room moved.

Reddington took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face, and the man began to laugh at him. Before her conscience had time to weigh the potential problems associated with her actions, Liz walked forward swiftly, pressed her gun to the back of the man's hand where it rested palm-down on the arm of the chair, and pulled the trigger. He let out a primal cry, and Red looked up in surprise. ' _Really?_ ' he seemed to ask.

Liz raised an eyebrow, and shrugged, as if to say ' _oops'_. Reddington sighed, and nodded in the direction of the doorway, banishing her back to her post. "I'll take it from here, thank you," he said, quiet sarcasm lacing his words.

Liz backed away, and Reddington turned his attention back to the man in the chair, whose groans were dying down slightly as he heaved deep, painful breaths.

"Well, I suppose the seal's been broken now, hasn't it? No way to undo _that_ ," he said, staring at the man's bleeding hand with a comically wide-eyed expression. "Being shot in the hand is just an absolute bitch—all of those little bones. At least it goes right through. Worst part, honestly, is needing somebody to help zip your fly," he added conversationally. He waited another beat before commanding softly, "Tell me your story."

No response.

"I'm not leaving here without a story," Reddington reiterated.

When information was not volunteered, Reddington lifted his gun and shot the man again, high up in his left leg. As the man bellowed in pain, Reddington cringed and shook his head. "Being shot in the hip, on the other hand… Jiminy Cricket. Thick bone, large artery… not to mention the fact that it makes walking upright forever impossible." Reddington continued talking over the man's now incessant moaning. "Just don't pass out. Stay focused. _The story_ ," he repeated. "What did I do to you?"

The man in the chair hung his head, breathing heavily.

Reddington bobbed his head. "How about the kneecap?" he asked, pressing the muzzle of his silencer to the man's right knee. "The IRA always _loved_ a good kneecapping—"

"Beirut!" the man finally ground out. "2010!"

"Beirut?" Liz asked from the doorway, confused. She searched her memory. There was nothing of any consequence…? She knew there was the Campolongo incident, but that wasn't nearly—

Liz looked at Reddington, whose face was momentarily just as bewildered as hers. Liz opened her mouth to ask another question, but froze as Reddington swung his gun up and leveled it straight at her head. She took a sharp breath. Did Beirut mean something to him that it didn't mean to her? What had she missed?

Did he remember her…?

She heard Tom's voice just as she felt the cold metal of a gun press into her temple. "Hey babe," he said lightly, quickly relieving her of the weapon she held in her right hand. He tucked it into the waist band of the back of his pants and wrapped a tight hand around Liz's upper arm. He raised his voice, directing his next instruction at Reddington. "Slide it over here. Slide the gun. Now."

"No," Reddington said firmly, not taking his eyes off of Tom.

"Do it!" the man in the chair ordered. "Kill her! Pull the trigger; do it! Now!"

"Don't do it," Liz said, her voice quietly imploring. She couldn't imagine that her husband had any sentimentality when it came to their marriage, but on the off chance he had even a _sliver_ of affection for her, she aimed to capitalize on it.

"Do you hear me?!" the man shouted. " _Shoot her!"_

"Tom. Please," Liz said, mentally kicking herself for not watching the hallway as she'd been assigned. How had Tom gotten past Dembe?—oh _God, Dembe_ —

"This man—he take everything from me!"

Liz's mind skipped between different topics like a stone flung across water. If they got out of this, Reddington would never trust her enough to take her out in the field with him ever again—why was Tom using her as a shield instead of just shooting both of them?— _what had happened to Dembe?_ —if she could just keep herself between Tom and Reddington, with Tom's gun pointed at _her_ and not at _him_ —

"For what? For nothing!" the man in the chair continued to bellow. "For money—for business. He snaps his fingers and my life was—"

With that, Reddington made a sharp movement with his weapon and shot the man in the head, silencing him. "Well," Reddington said, spreading his arms wide. "That simplifies matters. Just the three of us."

Liz let out a sharp breath. Fine. If Tom couldn't be swayed by sentiment, maybe she could get him angry enough that he'd make a mistake and she could get the gun away from him. Or force him back out into the hall. "I know, Tom," she said tightly. "I know you killed my father."

The hand around her bicep tightened slightly, but Tom didn't say anything.

"Mmm, yes, I suppose this hasn't been addressed yet, has it?" Reddington asked, tilting his head at them. "You were in his hospital room when he died. Did you see the drawings? Of me?" he asked. Again, Tom didn't answer. "I know you did," Reddington went on. "Your fingerprints were found on them."

Liz had let her eyes drift to Reddington's gun, held loosely at his side, but at his words her eyes cut sharply back up to his face. He hadn't told her Tom had found the drawings.

"What do you know?" Reddington asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. "About her connection to me?"

"Red—"

"Quiet. Tom and I are having a conversation, Agent Keen, and it's rude to interrupt." Reddington took a slow step around the chair where the dead man was slumped.

"He'd have to be _talking_ for this to be a conversation, Red," Liz answered testily. "Tom, make the right choice here," she urged. "Put the gun down before you do something you regret."

" _Regret?_ " Tom repeated.

"There's one of you. Two of us," Liz pointed out as Reddington took another step forward. "You shoot me? He'll put one between your eyes before you can release the trigger. There's no good way you walk out of here. Because if you shoot _him_ …" Liz paused, thinking of Sam. "It doesn't matter if I'm unarmed. _I swear I'll kill you with my bare hands_ —"

Reddington advanced again, and Tom pressed the gun harder into Liz's temple. "Stop right there," he ordered.

"She's right, Tom," Reddington said, ignoring his instructions and continuing forward. "You need to decide what you're going to do here, and decide fast. Because when I get over there… I'm gonna take that gun away from you," he promised in a low growl.

Liz felt the shift in Tom's stance; the way he rocked back on his right foot for balance. She noticed as he stepped away from her side, tucking himself in even more behind her body as his right hand turned the weapon out toward Reddington.

Liz lurched forward abruptly, throwing her weight toward the hand that held the gun. Tom's arm, not braced on anything, swung wide as Liz's shoulder shoved it to the side, and the gun went off loudly.

As Liz tumbled to the side, she heard the sound of Reddington's silencer, twice in quick succession. She caught herself painfully as she slammed into a low table, and spun around to see Tom, slumped against the far wall, already ashen. Blood was seeping quickly through his shirt.

Reddington strode quickly toward the man on the ground, his gun leveled at his head.

"No!" Liz said, stepping forward. She winced, and caught at Red with her left hand.

"We can't leave him alive," Reddington said, his voice low.

"Please go," Liz said. "I'll finish it. This is between _us_."

Reddington stood for a moment, staring down at Tom, who was looking up at him with a resigned, exhausted expression. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head and drew in a ragged breath.

"Red…" Liz stepped forward, and pulled at Reddington's wrist, lowering his gun. " _Go check on Dembe_ ," she pressed.

"Do it quickly. Meet me back at the house." With that, Reddington swept out of the room.

Liz knelt in front of Tom, her face impassive. He gave a weak shake of his head and looked back at her, subdued. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No, you're not," she murmured back sadly. "People think Reddington's a monster… Our friends think you're the perfect man. If only they knew that _he_ has saved my life…" Liz tilted her head and regarded Tom evenly. A brief thought that barely had time to register told her she'd been spending too much time around Red—she was starting to mimic his movements. "You, on the other hand… cheated on me, lied about almost _every_ aspect of our lives, beat me—multiple times—and now…" Liz shrugged her right shoulder. "You've also shot me. I wonder… given this information? Who would they think was more of a monster?"

"He's not who he pretends to be, Liz," Tom said, his voice strained.

"Neither am I," she replied coldly as she leaned in to her husband, her face inches from his. She wrapped one hand around his waist as his face softened. She pulled back, holding the gun he'd taken from her. She stood and walked away down the hall.

…:::…

Liz arrived at Reddington's safe house just as he and Dembe were packing the last of their things into the trunk of their car. Liz swallowed, suddenly terrified that he was leaving. He'd been arrested and escaped custody, the state of his immunity agreement was ambiguous, and he'd just eliminated Berlin… There was nothing to keep him here.

"So is this it? You disappearing?" she called as she stepped out of her car in the driveway. She'd purposefully blocked Dembe in, and the look he shot her told her he was well aware of the intent behind her specific park job. They weren't leaving until she'd had a chance to talk to Reddington. As Liz approached them, she raised her eyebrows at Dembe, silently asking if he was okay. He wordlessly inclined his head and pointed to an impressive cut and large bruise high above one ear. Liz cringed in sympathy, but Dembe shrugged it off and thanked her for her concern with a small smile.

Reddington led her inside, and they sat, side by side on the massive marble staircase. He sat first, and she took the opportunity to sit on the same step, close to his side.

"Was Berlin the whole reason you turned yourself in?" Liz asked, dreading his answer.

"The man I killed wasn't Berlin," Reddington replied.

Liz's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know?"

"He spoke of Beirut, 2010. A regrettable situation, but Berlin's attacks on my business started years earlier."

"It also had nothing to do with the Russian girl…" Liz added, putting together more pieces of the puzzle. The 'Berlin' he'd shot in the apartment earlier hadn't made sense, and she was pleased to find out she hadn't missed something. "Why would her name be in the paperwork regarding Berlin's arrival here if his entire issue with you began with something as inconsequential—and recent—as the Campolongo incident?"

"And you know all of the details surrounding that unfortunate mess?" Reddington asked tiredly, swinging his head to look at Liz. He wasn't even bothering to feign surprise anymore.

She nodded. "Uh huh."

"Of course you do," Reddington said, shaking his head with a soft, huffed laugh.

Loathe to lose the pleasant tone of their conversation, Liz hesitated with her next question. "Red… the man in the apartment, earlier… He said you'd already found me. What did he mean by that?"

Reddington nodded thoughtfully. "He also accused me of being sloppy, leaving you alive." Reddington turned to meet Liz's gaze. "When did I spare your life when I shouldn't have?" he asked, his eyes intense.

Neither of them spoke.

"It looks like we've arrived at our usual impasse," Liz said finally.

"Looks like it," Reddington said, looking away across the bare marble floor of the foyer.

Liz pointed at the front door. "You didn't answer me before. You're all packed." Her heart squeezed. "Is this it? Are you done? Is this you…leaving?"

Reddington shook his head. "Just to a new location. There's still work to be done. Berlin still needs to be found. And I still need answers." He dropped his eyes to look at her hands, folded together in front of her. "Some of them from you."

Liz felt relief wash over her. "I tried some of the champagne," Liz offered, changing the subject. "Last night."

"Any good?"

"Honestly… I couldn't even tell you. Loosing Meera… left a sour taste in my mouth," Liz admitted, frowning.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as the celebratory type after a loss like that," Reddington said seriously.

"Actually, coming home to a house without Tom, full of flowers and alcohol was probably the best case scenario after the day I'd had." Liz looked sideways at Reddington. "Thank you, by the way. The flowers are beautiful."

Reddington didn't look at her, and didn't reply. Liz looked down at her hands. "Are you going to go back to your maiden name now that Tom's gone?" Reddington asked, breaking the silence.

"No. Tom Keen never existed—Keen wasn't his name. I'm keeping it. It's mine now. Besides, I don't want to confuse you…" she said teasingly. "I'd _never_ be able to convert you from Agent Keen to Agent—"

"I think I'll just switch to 'Lizzie' now, actually," Reddington interrupted smoothly. "'Agent' isn't nearly so versatile."

"My name is Liz, not Lizzie—"

"Yes, but you know me well enough to know I'll refuse to follow instructions… if at all possible… so it's 'Lizzie' or 'Agent Keen'. Take your pick."

Liz couldn't hide her grin. "I guess I can live with 'Lizzie'." After a moment, she added, "You know, when you asked Tom about what he knew…about you…and me… You called me 'Agent Keen' again… After a few days of 'Lizzie' I thought we'd taken a bit of a step backwards…"

Reddington cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. "Remember the story I told you when we were locked in the box? During the incursion at the black site?"

" _Which_ story…?" Liz said. "You talked a lot," she said with fake sincerity.

Reddington didn't appear amused, and didn't take the bait. "I value loyalty," he explained. "But allegiances shift. Loyalties change. I can't promise you that the information you're hiding from me…" Reddington stopped to roll his jaw and reconsider his words. "I can only assume that you refuse to tell me these things because they are, in some way, harmful to you. To our working relationship. I assume, when someone is this adamant about secrecy, the thing they're keeping shrouded from view is damaging… and destructive. If your secrets are as horrific as your tight lips make them seem… I can't promise that I'll always look on you…" Reddington trailed off, searching for the right word. "… _favorably_ ," he finished.

Liz nodded thoughtfully. "But… for the moment… you _do_ look on me favorably?" she asked carefully.

Reddington narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his lips quirked up a bit. " _'For the moment'_ ," he agreed.

Liz looked out across the foyer with a relieved, satisfied smile. "I can work with that," she said.

…:::…  
END.

Author's Note: And that's it, folks! Season One rewrite: FINISHED. This story is complete, but as I said—look for Season Two possibly starting over the winter hiatus. :) Thank you thank you thank you thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed! You are _all_ awesome, and I can't tell you how flattered I am that some of my favorite people and favorite authors have left me such lovely comments. Thank you EVERYONE for sticking with me through 23 chapters and over 100k words! This is by far the biggest thing I've ever written!

…okay… partially written…

…blatantly plagiarized…

*sighs* Oh whatever. ;)


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